


The Elegy of the Black Sapphire

by RoxanneBlackbird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aerys Is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Elia Martell, BAMF Rhaella Targaryen, Complicated Relationships, F/M, House Tarth has Targaryen blood, It starts of nice but beware, Other, Prophecy, Strong Female Characters, The Prince That Was Promised, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, White Walkers, in a lot of different ways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 125,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneBlackbird/pseuds/RoxanneBlackbird
Summary: House Tarth had chosen the Sun and Moon for its sigil, on turquoise and pink- the shades of the sky at dawn and dusk. Not truly red, not truly blue.Thus, Ostaera was not truly white either, nor truly the black of House Targaryen. Instead there was only grey.Grey would be her, and it would be safe. It could become anything she needed it to be, it could make her survive even though she truly did not wish to anymore.King Aerys II of House Targaryen shifts his gaze and the wheel turns upon House Tarth, the fate of Westeros forever altered.
Relationships: A lot of stuff I don't want to spoil, Aerys II Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Rhaegar Targaryen/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 111
Kudos: 81





	1. Harlan Pyke I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to this humble creation of mine- well in part, of course.  
> This is my first work in the ASOIAF fandom and my first Fanfic written in English as well. Thus, the amount of research I put into timelines, character histories, economy, heraldry and other such nonesense is quite frankly ridiculous.  
> However, I hope the experience I can create (with your help if the Gods are good) will be an authentic one.
> 
> Reviews and any kind of construtive critisism are very welcome.  
> With Love,  
> Roxanne  
> A/N: Slight edits to the chapters have been made as of 15.05.2020, mainly grammar and wording.

# Harlan Pyke I

The sails of the _Windbreaker_ were blowing in the strong winds of the Narrow Sea. Harlan Pyke, captain of this glorious ship- at least to him and his crew it was glorious- stood at the helm, watching the small island growing closer with every wave.

The seas were rough, bursting against the woods, a wave breaking onto the deck every so often. Harlan, however, trusted his crew to take care of it. They were too close to land, too proud, to be swept against the shores.

‘ _Shipbreaker Bay’_ sneered Harlan, turning to face his crew. They would not break, not these men.

A jolly sea shanty, rough and loud, reached his ears and he grinned. His men were in high spirits ever since they left Sunspear, their lazaret filled to the brim with the finest spirits this side of Westeros.

‘ _He's_ _the_ _fiddler, he's the fiddler, he's the fiddler on the deck_  
 _Better take care and be aware, he's like a cutlass in your back_  
 _He's the fiddler, he's the fiddler, he's the fiddler on the deck!_ ’

“TAKE IN THE MAINSAIL!” roared Harlan over their heads, their answering shouts only interrupting the singing for the moment.

Turning the steering wheel, Harlan brought them through the first stone banks that lurked underneath the shallow waters. Were you dumb enough the reach over the railing, you might be able to touch the granite.

None of his sailors were dumb, not anymore.

The _Windbreaker_ was pushed and pulled around, the waves bigger, frothing and strong. Harlan steered the course.

“Cap’n!” the voice of his first mate, Holystone Jack, “The Western Beacon has been sighted!”

The tall lad, young but sturdy, with a heap of the brightest red hair Harlan had ever seen, jumped up the stairs from the gangway.

“We better take down the other sails, Cap’n” he added, not out of breath from climbing around the rigging since noon.

“No” answered Harlan, “Hoist the Colours. We can reach the Port of Evenfall tonight, but only if this lot stops lollygagging.”

Without another word, Holystone went off.

Harlan focused his old eyes on the horizon, and soon enough he could make out the flickering of a distant fire. The Western Beacon of Tarth, just north of the port they wanted to reach. 

Tarth was said to be the most useless of islands, bestowed with neither riches nor farmland, but Harlan had sailed to and fro the Sapphire Isle nigh on one hundred times. It had been the first haven he had reached on his first ever voyage, when he was just three-and-ten years old, and ever since Harlan felt Tarth to be a home away from home.

The ruling family, a tall lot, had always welcomed him in their halls, not caring for his clothes or titles. But tonight, with the stars and the moon hiding behind thick grey clouds, the winds from Essos mixing with the breeze from the mainland, Tarth did not seem as welcoming.

Gripping the wood of the wheel harder, Harlan thought on the man whose death brought him here. He might have been no noble, no one important, but Old Cendrik Tarth always had time to drink a bottle of ale with Harlan. But now the Evenstar lay dead, leaving behind a son whom Harlan did not know.

Only, that his wife was the most beautiful woman, Harlan ever laid eyes on- taller than even Big Addam, with hair the colour of moonlight and eyes brighter than the amethysts Harlan could never afford.

He might not follow the Old Way of the Iron Islands anymore, had not seen Blacktyde in eight-and-ten years now, but the Lady Daerya Tarth had tested him, truly. She was The Maiden born again, and not only to Harlan himself but the crew as well. Her name was shouted in the depths of the strongest storms, she was hailed and sung about. That none of them ever said a word to her, had not seen her sneer nor her smiles, was never uttered.

Not even the Queen herself, though one of those Targaryens too, could be as beautiful as Lady Daerya.

The lights of Evenfall Port blinked at them through the spray, beckoning them but you needed to be careful, watchful. Were you to sail straight at them, your ship would join the hundreds of vessels that sank in Shipbreaker Bay every year.

Harlan was not deceived, listening once more to his crew who had started another song, about the Lady Daerya. It was a nice melody, too soft for one of his lads to have come up with. Mayhaps a lady love had sung it- that must be it. He had heard it before as well, not on deck but somewhere with stone walls and carpets.

“LOWER THE GRAPNEL!”

With the smallest sounds, the anchor was lowered, the ship shuttering, Harlan turning the wheel so they might avoid another cliff.

Slowly the _Windbreaker_ came to halt against the grey granite docks of Evenfall’s Port, the men jeering, mafficking as the last of their tiredness left them. The harbourmaster made some noise, but Harlan ignored him while the ropes where thrown to the hands on shore.

Harlan walked off, leaving Holystone in charge.

“Tell your men to stop, they shall be waking up the whole island!” harbourmaster Jon exclaimed, but Harlan fixed him with a stern look.

“We have travelled without pause for the last moon turn, now leave us be.”

Jon sighed, grumbling something into his beard, but turned away. Most likely to return to bed. Yet there would be no rest for Harlan yet.

Walking the deserted streets of Evenfall Port, the half-timbered houses crooked and old around him, passing the Starhaven Inn where the last revellers would be ending the night, until he reached the stables were his horse, Seawater, waited for him.

High above his head, the cliffs and dwindling heights of the Southern Bow Mountains met the sky, while the Pass curved around and through the granite in front. It was a long journey, Harlan knew, and even longer till one reached Morne but it was no matter.

Seawater was bright and awake when Harlan reached her, as if the mare had known her rider would return this very moment.

Easily, but with a heavy heart, Harlan turned her through the wooden gate and into the cobblestone path that led up a steep incline. The way was only lit by torches and the occasional brazier, completely deserted, but Seawater was sure-footed, not slipping, never stumbling.

Harlan, eyes focussed ever ahead, let his mind wander. Every time he had been to Tarth the last decade, Lord Cendrik had greeted him in Evenfall Hall’s sandstone and glass courtyard. But not today. It was a strange feeling. Harlan never knew friends, only mates. Companions. Pirates like him, but if he would have been pressed, Harlan would only name Lord Cendrik as his friend.

He, and Seawater, broke through the other side of the cavern and now Harlan’s gaze fell upon the castle, sitting atop the highest mountain with a sturdiness that calmed his nerves somewhat. There were sayings in the Seven Kingdoms and Essos.

_As long as the Wall stands, the North would remember._

_Braavos shall remain till the Titan kneels._

_If the ravens leave the Hightower, the kingdom will fall._

Harlan had heard them all, and yet he did not pray for them. He prayed for Evenfall Hall, for if the seat of the Sapphire Lords prevailed, he would always have a place to call home.

The thicket around the winding road up to the main gates was alive with noises, foxes and hawks and owls hunting undisturbed, racing across the ridges and down the deep that ended in Morne.

“Open the gates!” called one of the guards as they saw Harlan approach, the banner of Tarth fluttering in the wind atop the gatehouse, only overshadowed by the Targaryen coat of arms above it.

No Lord Cendrik greeted Harlan, and though he had known, it still pained him to see the yard without the imposing figure of the Evenstar.

“What is your business in Evenfall Hall, m’lord?” asked one of the new men, until he was pushed aside by the captain of the guard, Ser Goodwin Stromling, a bastard like Harlan who had gotten himself knighted by Lord Cendrik two decades ago.

“Welcome, Harlan- I’ve been waiting for you ever since the raven was sent.”

“I have you to thank for the letter, then?”

“Aye” Ser Goodwin shook his head, the green eyes glowing with anger, “Lady Daerya did not want to send for you, but Lord Halcyon listened to me for once.”

“Surprising that you’re still here.”

Ser Goodwin, his long brown hair balding already, let out a bellowing laugh that echoed through the bailey and into the keep itself.

“Lord Halcyon, or Lord Tarth now, would never send me away. The lad could barely hold a sword before Old Lord Cendrik asked me to come. Lady Daerya is not so bad.”

“I believe that when I see it.”

“She’s not like those King’s Landing Targaryens, you’ve not been back since their palace in the Storm Lands burned down.”

“Summerhall. I was at King’s Landing when it happened. I’ve never heard the bells ring like that and I never want to again” answered Harlan grimly, remembering how everyone in the docks had stopped their working to run all the way to the Great Sept of Baelor. There, the High Septon in his sparkling crown and expensive robes, had declared that King Aegon V had died at Summerhall.

“Have you seen the new King?” asked Ser Goodwin, begging Harlan to follow him into the barracks where the two found seats next to the roaring fireplace, a cask of wine resting on top of a dresser, as well as a plate with cheese and venison.

Harlan, biting into the thick loaf of rye bread, nodded: “Seems a good man, I attended the honour feast after the War. The War of the Fivepenny Kings, the singers call it, sounds too fanciful, if you ask me.”

“Tell me about it, I was there when they landed on the Stepstones, saw Lord Baratheon die but that’s not what they ask about, is it.”

The two men toasted to their fallen friends and the new Lord of Storm’s End, Steffon Baratheon.

“He named Ser Tywin Lannister Hand of the King, that Lord of Casterly Rock who had the Reynes and Tarbecks killed. They sing about that, too. Makes me sick to think about. But he is a good Hand, the King is a good man as well. The girls always talk about the masked balls he holds every moon” Harlan shook his head, “Singing, dancing- everything that takes his fancy, but he rules as well as he celebrates.”

“We should ask Lord Tarth to send his wife to court. Mayhaps that could lighten her mood.”

“I don’t know about that, Goodwin. A feast doesn’t bring back the dead.”

Ser Goodwin nodded sagely: “I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose both your parents in a fire like that. She lost another babe, you know- and Lord Halcyon wasn’t here when it happened.”

“The others are well, I take it?”

“Aye, they are a joy, causing mayhem all around the castle” Goodwin laughed, “You have yet to meet the littlest ones?”

Harlan nodded: “I left somewhere around their birth.”

“Lord Cendrik loved them greatly, always letting them play in his solar during the day and playing hide and seek.”

“I remember him from when Lord Selwyn was that young” grinned Harlan, “I have never seen a man that confused as when the Lady Daerya placed the lad in his arms, as if he forgot how to be a father.”

“Knowing him, he probably had.”

The men roared with laughter, raising their cups once more to the Old Lord, their friend.

“What have they named them this time? I always avoided asking about the others in my letters to Lord Cendrik, ‘cause I couldn’t spell their names to safe my life.”

“Selwyn and Cordelia are fine names, I’ll let you know” Ser Goodwin waved a finger around, “It’s the other three that make my head hurt. The boy is called Astraeon, the girl Ostaera.”

“Isn’t there a fancy word for that?”

“Twins?”

Harlan shook his head: “Nay, something those maesters in Oldtown like to use. My first mate trained to be one, you know, but he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Sometimes I wonder whether he uses those big words to make fun of me.”

“But he knows you would throw him into the Narrow Sea, were that the case.”

“I hope so” laughed Harlan, “We should keep him away from Lady Cordelia if anything. He’ll pretend to be a highborn and I could never set foot on Tarth ever again.”

“They betrothed her, a little over two moon turns ago.”

“Who’s the lucky man?”

“Lord Gerwig Dondarrion of Blackhaven!” exclaimed Ser Goodwin ceremoniously “Heir of his familiy’s seat, north of the Dornish Marshes. Lady Cordelia will have a good life there, though she is not to be wed for another three or four years.”

“Lord Selwyn, how does he fare?”

“Betrothed as well, Lady Daerya has a fine eye for that sort of thing- she found a lady for Tarth, Lady Jocelyn Penrose. A small lass, barely reaches Lord Selwyn’s shoulder, but the way she speaks makes her seem like more of a person. Definitely has her opinions, this one.”

“You need that for Lord Selwyn. Last time I saw him, he wanted to sail north to scale The Wall.”

“He might still do it, you know, promised Old Cendrik to make a name for himself.”

“Lord Cendrik never cared for names.”

“I know that, Harlan, I wouldn’t be here if he did. Sometimes I forget how lucky I was to find myself on Tarth, could have been another island, a different castle, a harder lord. Did I tell you that I wanted to join the Night’s Watch back then?”

“No” Harlan was honestly surprised, Ser Goodwin being one of those men that cherished their life, their wine and their women, “Why would you?”

Ser Goodwin shrugged: “It sounded honourable, the wandering crow always talked about that. How you would find brothers there. I never had a brother, or a sister- and that sounded great. I even thought about pledging to House Stark, anything to get out of that orphanage.”

“If freezing your cock off in that wasteland sound like a life to you…”

“Fuck off, Harlan. You’re lucky, you got out of the Iron Islands when you did.”

“I know that, I’m not stupid. At least most of the time.”

The men joined in their laughter, clinking their cups together.

“So, you leave for Morne on the morrow?” asked Goodwin after a bout of silence.

“Aye, I want to pay my respects. I wish those damned Dornish wouldn’t haggle so much, I could have been here earlier, could have talked to him.”

“He called me into his chambers before he died. Asked me to give this letter to you, the Old Lord knew what you wanted. I think” Goodwin swallowed harshly, eyes fixed on the fire, “I think he saw us as sons as well, or at least something better than street rats. He gave me one of his swords, nothing special or precious but he thought about me.”

Harlan nodded, taking the rolled up scroll with the blue wax seal, not sure whether he wanted to read it.

After saying his farewell to Ser Goodwin and the guard of Evenfall Hall, leaving just after the sun had risen above the horizon and well before the household would wake, Lord Harlan rode through the East Deep Gate that led into the heart of Tarth through a broad ravine.

He stopped at the town for the night, still not having opened the last words Lord Cendrik Tarth had written to him. Harlan could still remember his own letter to him, sent from Lemonwood not that long ago.

Scaling the mountains of the east, Seawater not complaining or throwing a shoe once, and down another ravine with small pathways, rushing waterfalls and the ever present river at the centre, Harlan laid eyes upon Morne, the ancient castle of Tarth and were the Lords of Evenfall were laid to rest. It was almost a fortnight’s travel from Evenfall to Morne in good weather, which was scarce to come by especially in winter.

Under the gleam of the midday sun, Seawater drinking her fill from a pond nearby, Harlan sat himself on a fallen tree and finale opened the scroll, not disturbing the seal. He liked keeping them, gifting them to his wife Annia back in King’s Landing who loved these trinkets.

The familiar flourishing letters of Lord Cendrik filled the entire paper, slanting to the left ever so lightly, the letters g and t the only ones with a truly straight line in them.

_To the esteemed Harlan Pyke, Captain of the Windbreaker._

_Harlan,_

_I write to you knowing that the hour of my death draws near, knowing that you shall not make it in time for us to say our farewells. It fills me with deep sorrow to not see you again, but I am confident that you will make your way to Tarth and mayhaps we shall meet again if the Gods are good._

_Having known you for most of your life, and dare I say the most important part?, I anticipate your thoughts as you are reading these lines. You always were a boy filled with regret, but let my death not be the reason for it. Let it rest upon my soul, this regret, that I was not alive long enough._

_Certainly, you have met with Ser Goodwin who shall hold unto this note for as long as he deems necessary. Winter has not yet broken, and it troubles me to never see Tarth in spring again, but it troubles me more that you might not have save travels._

_If you have spoken Ser Goodwin, he will have told you about the blade I had fashioned for him, a gift fit for the most honourable knight there ever shall be. I have high hopes that he might teach all the young boys that will live in Evenfall Hall for the years to come. Were it up to me, I would have arranged such a weapon for you yet I know your heart lies not in steel but the sea. Since, as you told me shortly after our first meeting, what use is a sword aboard a ship? I have never forgotten your cadence, even after so long these words remain in my mind._

_Thus, I requested another gift for you, all my sons have received these now whether they be in name or in my heart only._

_I remember your tales of piracy well, your dreams of hidden treasures, and I do not doubt that these dreams are as strong as ever. For, even though you have not followed in the path of your father and mother, you still remain an adventurer deep within. Therefore, the following lines shall contain the description to a hidden coven on Tarth that only those of my house know._

_Once you head out the East Deep Gate, follow our favourite track through the mountains towards the old Morne castle. Have you spotted her yet?_

_If so, then let your horse lead you safely through the crags and fords until you reach the broken archway that leads into the orchard. Wind your way through those apple and lemon trees, follow the hidden track near the battlements, passing the ancient mausoleums, until you see a sight scarcely seen south of the Neck._

_Find the tree with a bark as white as snow and leaves as red as blood, a face upon it that mourns more than a mere human’s death. It contains your gift._

_But there is another gift I wish to bestow upon you, one I have given to Ser Goodwin as well. Both of you are the natural sons of men who did not understand honour, the sons of women who did indeed understand love, but who were not able to give you a name fit for the men you have become._

_Ser Goodwin has chosen his name, the missive sent to the good King Aerys II which now allots him a piece of land on Tarth. The same shall be given to you, my son shall write to the King in my stead and ask for whatever name you wish to take. I would chose Seaworth, to remember your beginnings aboard Captain Will’s vessel that brought you to this small corner of the world._

_I hope that you find your new house in Evenfall Port acceptable, that your lovely Lady Annie might find happiness on the Sapphire Isle as you did._

_As I watch my grandchildren tumble around my desk, I wish for your happiness, that you may receive all you ask for, that the Gods grant you the boon you deserve._

_Was I to give you a last piece of prudent advice, I would be unsure as what to say and writing does not make them flow any easier._

_That is, where I will end this letter, though I wish to write another ten pages. None of them would contain all I want to say, all the memories I recall in this very moment and despite me knowing that you would listen to my rambling most diligently, I will do without it._

_Keep a weather eye on the horizon, look for the star in the clouds and may you return safely from all those long ventures._

_Yours,_

_Lord Cendrik Tarth of Evenfall Hall, Your father in all but name._

Harlan held onto the page with trembling fingers, hot tears dripping into the verdant grass and wet moss underneath his feet.

He did not know for how long he sat on the trunk, simply staring at the Old Lord’s words- a Lord who was more than that to him, more father than his own, more Lord than those Greyjoys he had once sailed under.

The Gods may have taken away Lord Cendrik, but Harlan nevertheless spoke a prayer to each of them, thanking them for leading him to Tarth, for letting him meet the Old Lord.

Long before the sun sank, Harlan was astride his loyal Seawater, letting himself be carried onwards towards Morne. He had intended to visit the mausoleums of the Tarth Lords, yet once the old ruin grew ever closer, he decided to first find what Lord Cendrik had hidden for him there.

Harlan had not known there to be a heart tree on Tarth still, but it made sense for it was a small castle on an even smaller island off the coast of the Storm Lands. Who would search for one here? He had never visited a goodswood, nor seen a heart tree but he had heard songs about them aboard. That was a long time ago, but some words still rang true in his heart. He would never forget the praying chant of a northern member of Captain Will’s crew when they were caught in the biggest storm Harlan had ever known, some miles outside Gulltown. It might not have been the Old Gods that saved them then, but something did save them before they were shattered against the shelves.

Inside a blue bottle, tied with sturdy rope to one of the thick tree branches, swaying in the breeze, Harlan found what Lord Cendrik had left him instead of a sword.

It was a nautical compass, made of brass with a piece of metal that could be folded outwards to be used as a sundial. On the back, the Tarth coat of arms was engraved, the smallest sapphire at the centre, and a strong chain was attached to it. At once, Harlan attached it to the inside of his cassock, putting the finely crafted gift into one of the pockets Annie insisted on sewing into his garments. Now, once more, he was glad for his wife’s ingenuity.

Mayhaps he would have necklace with a similar design crafted for her, it would make a nice gift.

Once he reached the burial grounds of the Lords and old Kings of Tarth, the sombre melancholy returned to Harlan again, his eyes wandering over the small hills, covered in flowers and trees, with a small wrought iron or stone door at the front. The name of the once interred were written on them. He did not know how it was determined, where a lord or lady were laid to rest, and he did not care greatly either.

He came upon a familiar sight then, the hill closest to the northern wall of Morne, were nigh on ten years ago the Lady Erwina, Lord Cendrik’s wife, was laid to rest. Harlan had attended the ceremony, mourning the woman as though she were his own mother. Now, a second inscription had been added to the red sandstone door that lead into the low cavern that now held the body of Harlan’s oldest friend.

Touching the compass were it rested against his heart, Harlan took a bottle out of his satchel. It was filled to the brim with now long dead and dried rose petals Harlan had collected from the Reach. Lord Cendrik had always talked about the beauty of these flowers, had even planted one bush of almost golden roses in the garden of Evenfall not long before Lady Erwina’s death. Thus, Harlan had cut the most beautiful blooms he could find and put them inside this small bottle.

Then, once the last dark red petal had sunken to the ground, Harlan took out a small wooden box. Within were the sands of the most southern shore of Dorne. His crew must have thought him mad as he ordered them to halt out in the middle of nowhere, but Harlan could not be deterred, and had stubbornly filled the simply worked crate with the hot sands and a few little sea shells. Lord Cendrik had always been most excited about Harlan’s tales of Dorne, having never travelled Sunspear after the War. Maybe that was why Lord Cendrik had loved Harlan so: he travelled the known world, from White Harbor to Sunspear, from Lannisport to Braavos, seeing all these wondrous sights Lord Cendrik never could.

Harlan sharply remembered the first words he had said to Lord Cendrik.

“You would make a fine pirate, m’lord.”

He did not know, where he had said them nor what happened before. He only knew that Lord Cendrik had laughed loudly, ordering the men to bring the half-drowned boy to Tarth with them.

Harlan smiled slightly before taking out the last trinket he had brought with him to Tarth. It was the one from the furthest Harlan had travelled yet, and only a year or so old now. The _Windbreaker_ had been tasked with taking an order of wheat and other goods up from The Arbor to White Harbour, a lucky assignment that had been bargained by Holystone Jack and earned him his post as First Mate.

Harlan had never been in the North after the ship his father commandeered sunk during a storm in Shipbreaker Bay, and he had greatly admired the magnificent port of White Harbour during his stay. They were tasked with bringing a shipment of Ironwood back to The Arbor right away, Lord Manderly being quite excited about his continued trade with the famed Reach. As a bonus, the Lord had gifted the crew of the _Windbreaker_ a cask of the finest Northern Ale, brewed right outside the city gates and revered even by Lord Stark himself. Harlan did not know Lord Stark, had never met him, but still he was excited.

Wrapped in a northern fur, doubtlessly of a great beast, Harlan procured the last remnant of that White Harbour Ale. He considered for a moment to simply empty it atop the white and yellow flowers growing atop Lord Cendrik’s bones. Then he decided against it, drinking it in one fell swoop instead.

It was done.

He had paid his respects.

Still, Harlan sat down on the grass, amidst the crawling insects and high wheats, and started talking. He told Lord Cendrik all he had seen, all he had heard and smelled in the last years. How his daughter, Cendra, was the best singer in the entire River Row. How his son, Davos, was already swinging a stick through the air and chasing monsters away from his mother. How the sea had taken another one of his crew, and they had to bury him where no wife or child could ever find him. How Cendra and Annie talked about the great feasts in the Red Keep, feasts they could almost hear from their little house in the shadow of Aegon’s Hill.

He stayed the night in Morne, watching the stars and the moon through a hole in the wall, listening to the ghosts of ancient heroes around him and made his way towards the Narrow Sea Watchtower where the _Windbreaker_ would have laid at anchor after stocking up on bread, fruits and meat for their journey back to King’s Landing.

He could see the familiar sails, the deep red fluttering against the bright sky, the Targaryen flag high above it.

Once more aboard the familiar planks, everything in order, Harlan only need bark one order and they would turn their backs on Tarth.

“WINDLASS, UP!” he bellowed out, ascending the stairs to the helm with a sure foot, “WE SAIL FOR KING’S LANDING TODAY.”

“AYE!” called the crew.

The anchor was raised with the loud clanking of it’s chain, curling up next to Harlan as he turned his eye to the horizon, facing north were they would make for Sharp Point until they turned into Blackwater Bay.

He had longed to return to Tarth, and now he was called to King’s Landing.

“Was it a good stay, Capt’n?” asked Holystone, “We only went up to Evenfall Hall to give them the missive.”

“It was good, aye, Jack. I said my farewells to a good friend, but if the Gods are good I will return to Tarth before long.”

“You’ll leave?”

“I have been sailing the Seven Seas for almost twenty years. My children grow up without me, and Lord Cendrik has left me a small house in Evenfall Port. I would retire there, a name and place to call my own.”

Holystone looked discouraged, as if he would never have expected to have to part ways with his captain so early.

“I cannot imagine the _Windbreaker_ without you. The sea is your lady!”

“My Annie is my lady” corrected Harlan with a smile, “And there will always be captains to come and go, that’s the nature of our trade.”

“But why leave.”

“I have seen every port between Oldtown and Widow’s Watch, I have killed good men, I have watched even better men die. My life was an adventure, but now I can make a choice and I have made it. Maybe, I will ask for a turn aboard the _Windbreaker_ once more when I am old and grey, but until then…who knows.”

“We would gladly welcome you” laughed Holystone, laying a strong hand atop Harlan’s shoulder before he jumped down onto deck with great agility, shouting at their crew to drop the sails and secure the ropes.

It felt, Harlan realized, unsettling to leave your life behind. Would it not be easier, to simply continue sailing across the world with nothing but the sturdy planks between him and death? He made an honest living now, but it was not gold he wanted anymore.

The _Windbreaker_ reached the Gullet in good time, the revelry among the men stronger each day, and once they made for Mud Gate, up the currents of Blackwater Rush, most had started climbing the rigging, waving to passing longships, galleons and smaller vessels and yelling their greeting to fellow seafarers. King’s Landing, the smell of shit and salt water, was abuzz with one of the famous parties of their King and Queen.

Nary a week later, wife and children aboard his trusted ship, Harlan Seaworth set sail with a grim yet happy determination filling his bones.

Winter storms rushed over the Storm Lands, raising the waves in Shipbreaker Bay high over the railing of the _Windbreaker_.

A foolish man would not be able to navigate the cliffs and reefs off the coast of Tarth, and Harlan was not a foolish man.

Still, the bravery and strength of his crew did not hold and as Harlan saw the lights of The Western Beacon nigh on five miles away, he knew what he had to do.

“READY YOURSELF!” he roared over the howling winds, watching as Holystone climbed beneath deck to awaken Annie and the children, while his loyal men, now singing once more, were holding on. Steadfast.

They looked to their captain, gripping the wheel with white hands, only focussing on the feeling of the wood.

The next wave rocked the ship to the core, Harlan himself remained standing through sheer willpower alone, never releasing his hold on the wheel. If he did, the ship would be smashed against the stones.

A flash of lightning broke through the clouds, brightening for a split second the darkness around them.

Harlan swore, he could see the Great Window of Evenfall Hall then, blinking like a star to guide him safely home.

Another wave washed over the _Windbreaker_ , and Harlan was almost thrown overboard as the ship nearly capsized, the loud cracking interrupting the noise. It was a sound, Harlan had heard too often to mistake it.

The rigging came down first, the main mast groaning and creaking as its little brother crashed against it, wooden splinters mixing with the sea water and blood on deck. Harlan could hear his Annie scream.

“JACK!” he called out, his first mate, white shirt torn and almost invisible against his dark skin, “GET AS MANY MEN AS YOU CAN AND LEAVE.”

“WE CAN’T DO SHIT IN THIS STORM!”

“YOU WILL NOW. THAT IS AN ORDER!”

“CAPT’N! THE SHIP WILL SINK.”

“GET OFF NOW, SAVE THE CREW AND MY FAMILY.”

Jack paled.

“You will remain?”

“The captain never abandons ship, and I would take a place away from one of my men. Now, if I have to repeat myself, I will kill you myself.”

“Aye, Captain” Jack saluted, heading down to the main deck and screamed out orders into the wind, grabbing Annie, Cendra and Davos himself, while the crew lowered the landing boats. Harlan could see Annie, trying to make a run for him, but Big Addam grabbed her around the waist, hauling her into the boat himself.

Jack looked at Harlan as well, a stern face, before he once more made way for his captain.

“The men are set, Capt’n. I will ask you once more to get aboard.”

Instead of answering, Harlan reached inside his doublet, feeling the cold metal of the compass and remembering his Old Lord’s words.

“Give that to my wife, now off with you.”

Nodding, Jack made for the boats were the last place was reserved for him. Once Harlan was sure, they must have gotten a ways away, he turned the steering wheel as far around, as he could, tying it in its position and making for the anchor.

You would never drop it in the middle of a storm, but it would make no difference now. The heavy piece crashed into the frothing seas, sinking low, gripping unto the first jutting rock it could find, and almost ripping apart the ship.

Harlan set his sight on the lights of Evenfall Hall, never letting go of every memory he could recall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.
> 
> What did you think about the introduction? 
> 
> Also, the song the crew was singing in the beginning is called "Fiddler on the Deck" by Santiano, a German band who makes music entirely based around swashbuckling, seafaring and pirates. Even if you do not understand a single word they say, I can recommend giving them a listen.
> 
> With that, I shall bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne


	2. Osteara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 247AC: The family member of House Tarth make their first appearance and, as with all families, there is more to them than most would assume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back,  
> And an especially warm welcome and thanks to those who left Kudos on the first chapter:  
> Angel007, pithyPrestidigitator, Becky_Blue_Eyes, bookworm1000 and DestinyFoxGirl21 as well as the three guests.   
> This chapter goes out to you.
> 
> Without further ado, allow me to introduce one of our major characters/ protagonists for the foreseeable future.

# Ostaera I

You could hear her older siblings arguing all throughout Evenfall Hall.

Ostaera, youngest daughter of Lord Halcyon and Lady Daerya Tarth, leaned back against the cushioned oriel window in the library once Selwyn and Cordelia had passed the thick wooden doors without disturbing her.

Her book, a small collection of known stories of Storm’s End, laid against the rose coloured fabric embroidered with faded suns, her page lost due to her family members once again. Were it to happen less often, Ostaera might not have been as aggravated, but they had taken to half whispered, half shouted bouts in the middle of the day for quite some time.

The argument was old, tired and neither Cordelia nor Selwyn had yet to add something new to it.

“Will they ever cease!” came the voice of Astraeon, Ostaera’s twin brother entering through the library’s upper level enamel doors with a loud shout.

“Calm down, brother” answered Ostaera, laughing, her anger quickly fading “They shall cease when Selwyn speaks to his lady wife.”

“A day that will not arrive too soon” Astraeon strode down the winding stairs, coming to a halt next to her, “But I fear, Selwyn might become more annoying as a result.”

“Not all of us can be singers, you know.”

Astraeon rolled his eyes, the same shade of blue as hers: “Linnaeus is a different matter altogether. You should have seen him when he learned, that the crown prince himself is a famed lyre player- as far as the stories go, at least.”

“Lady Ulrike will be delighted” Ostaera let herself be pulled onto her feet, “I daresay, she falls in love with every syllable our brother sings about her.”

“Which lady would not fall in love with that?”

The pair, eerily similar in all things apart from fashion, left the library to make their way into the Great Hall.

“Not a single one. We love to be serenaded, especially those who claim to hate it!”

“Apart from mother.”

Ostaera’s mood darkened.

“Apart from mother, indeed. Has she told you more about your betrothed yet? All this secrecy will not end well.”

“Apparently, an offer to Lord Gower has been accepted. I am confident in it. Do you know his daughter?”

“Which one, he has three if I remember correctly.”

“You do, dearest sister. Her name is Lady Ramona, a fine-sounding name.”

“I have met her once, at the last feast at Storm’s End, I think. A beautiful young woman, a head of wild brown curls, amber eyes and with a mindfulness about her.”

Her brother nodded happily, most content with their mother’s choice of wife.

“Do not despair” he quickly added, “You know mother. She loves you too much to make idle decisions.”

“I know, but I cannot help feeling…inadequate” Ostaera sighed, pushing feelings about her too-square, too-manly face and physique out of her mind like she had learned quickly in her life.

“There will be a good man for you, and until then Selwyn will gladly let you stay here as long as you wish to. Even Cordelia will take you with her.”

“That might not go over well with Lord Gerwig. I am glad that they came here before the Tourney, though why I am not sure.”

“He knows his wife well, I assume” laughed Astraeon lightly, “She has taken on even more of mother’s words and ways. I did not think it possible.”

They ascended the broad stairs from the central rotunda, the great doors to the courtyard behind them, towards the Great Hall. The wrought iron bannisters, a great contrast to the bright sandstone walls, flourished in star and moon designs into the vaulted ceiling. The ceiling itself was a faded mural of the night sky with all known constellations of the Westerosi skies.

Two curved braziers stood guard atop the stairs, a small landing giving way to the ten feet high double doors, made of silver-plated steel and stained glass. The design of irregular swirls wound its way into the shapes of a crescent moon and a sun with a rather unsettling face on it. Though it did not weep, as those on the Heart Trees of the North did, Ostaera always felt a bout of sadness when she glanced upon it. It seemed to her that the sun herself would have a great tragedy to tell each who asked, but remained silent so as not to disturb the mortals.

Astraeon opened the crescent moon handles with a practiced gesture, letting Ostaera enter before him, and she waited for him inside, so they might take their place arm in arm.

Behind the Evenfall Throne, where their father Lord Tarth sat imperiously, the famous Glass Window was set into the wall, ever facing the Narrow Sea eastwards. It was shaped like any other window you might encounter, but the glass was dyed in all the shades of blue you could imagine morphing slowly into the rose colour of the most stunning sunset towards the top. They were shaped, as the door, with steel, golden suns interrupting the swooping patterns in a seemingly irregular manner. Ostaera had once counted them.

It had been seven-and-ten, then Selwyn had said it were more and she had counted again.

Even now, although the two siblings were old enough to count properly, they liked poking fun at the other and their perceived ignorance of numbers. It greatly irritated all their siblings who found it neither funny nor interesting, and Linnaeus resented it most of all.

The members of House Tarth and its household were sat at their usual seats along the Lord’s Table on the podium, as well as a collection of smaller tables in the main hall.

“Hurry up, children” greeted Lord Halcyon Tarth, breaking the illusion of the ruthless ruler, “We have waited long enough.”

The two merely nodded, crossing the polished sandstone tiles and taking their place on their mother’s side next to Linnaeus.

Were you to look upon the family now, mayhaps as part of the paintings in the Gallery in the west wing, you would think Linnaeus to be out of place in the arrangement. He, as the third child of the Lord and Lady Tarth, was the most handsome of them, the only one to inherit any sign of the Targaryens’ famed ethereal beauty from their mother.

They were all quite tall, towering over smallfolk and visiting lords alike, and slim in their build. For the men it was a fortuitous gift, their sight attracting the attention of all the ladies wherever they went, but for Cordelia and Ostaera it had always proven to be a nuisance. The kindest word bestowed upon them was “willowy”, though Ostaera (and Cordelia, too, if she knew her sister at all) did not enjoy being likened to a tree. Especially, if the tree more often than not was associated with weeping.

The harshest phrase usually contained the word brother in some shape or form, and it was not related Linnaeus at all which would turn it into a compliment.

Ostaera knew that she shared more than the letters of her name with Astraeon, but she resented to be purposefully mistaken for him by young lords and ladies alike. It was quite funny, in a very unfunny way, to be called out and teased for things out of her control. Were it her wits, she might have coped easier.

On the other hand, Ostaera pondered when the first course of the evening meal was set before her, she was quite proud of her wits, had read books and paid attention to Maester Cyrius in all her lessons. Maybe it would be worse to be teased for her mind, after all.

“The maids informed me, that you have packed?” asked Lady Daerya, precisely when the servants had cleared the first course away and there was a brief lull in noise.

“Yes, mother” answered Selwyn from beside their father, “We have been anticipating our leave for the last fortnight.”

“I am glad” laughed Lord Tarth, “There shall be no repeat of two years ago. Now, before we depart, I need to say a few words to you. Words that I expect to be taken seriously.”

His blue eyes, piercing already, were now focussing on each of his children and Ostaera could not help fussing for a moment. She knew her father, knew him to be childish and funny on occasion but at the same time he still was Lord of Tarth, the Evenstar.

“We have received a raven that King Aerys II shall not attend this tourney. It appears, the Prince Jaehaerys has not survived his fifth moon and the King wishes to mourn his son appropriately.”

Ostaera’s gaze rested unseeing on the goblet of wine, thinking about another dead Prince. They were kin, she knew, however distantly related. Aside from Prince Rhaegar who had been born during the Tragedy of Summerhall, none of the Queen’s children had survived. Prince Jahaerys had been the great new hope, another heir to the Iron Throne, but it seemed the Gods did not wish it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ostaera could see her mother stifling a small shudder, gripping the beautiful silverware in her slim fingers. She still wore a Targaryen signet ring, a three headed dragon embroidered inside the sleeves of all her dresses even though she had been Lady Tarth for decades now.

Lady Daerya had grown up in King’s Landing while her grandfather, King Maekar I Targaryen, had reigned. She had been betrothed two times, both men dying early, until she found Lord Halcyon Tarth. Both were old to be wed, yet they still did. Were it not for Ser Duncan and his lowly status before knighthood, Daella Targaryen might never have allowed such a union.

Yet she did, inadvertently turning her daughter into one of the last remaining Targaryens for she was not at Summerhall that fateful day.

Mayhaps it was a family trait for betrothals to be broken by the Gods, for both her eldest siblings had been betrothed before, partners changed multiple times until a final choice was made.

For three-and-ten years, Cordelia was now the Lady Dondarrion, wife of Lord Gerwig although she had once been betrothed to his older brother, then to him and then to his brother once more until Lord Beric Dondarrion died during an attack by highwaymen. Cordelia had been mildly putout, mourning Lord Beric as a friend, but then locking her tears away in favour of smiling elegantly at Lord Gerwig.

They even had a son, Lyton, scarcely two-and-ten and sitting between his parents. On all accounts, Cordelia was a marvellous Lady and Ostaera was proud of her, never once doubting her character. Ostaera knew that Cordelia had not chosen love, had written it out of her life completely, despite knowing since her ninth name day that her younger sister would be able to.

Selwyn, on the other hand, had fallen in love with one of mother’s ladies, the daughter of Ser Goodwin. Then, as the girl left Evenfall Hall to get wed herself, he fell in love with a girl that lived in the port whose name Ostaera could not remember and intended to marry her.

The Lady Jocelyn was quite angry when she learned that her betrothed was not loyal to her, and demanded the contract to be broken.

Now, years later, the two were still at odds but at least married. Another wonder of Lady Daerya.

No children yet, but Ostaera was positive they might come once the two stopped living in different towers of Evenfall Hall, a sore point between the eldest Tarth siblings. The whole affair was quite ridiculous and dramatic, even Linnaeus declared it to be over-the-top.

The silence was broken when Ser Goodwin entered the Great Hall, followed by his squire Davos Seaworth. As always, Evenfall Hall’s master-at-arms was grim, stern and barely smiled- he only did, when practicing with his squire, commenting on something or other.

The two took their respective seats in the hall, the boy joining the gaggle of children while Ser Goodwin sat heavily next to Master Cyrios, the two elderly men mostly engaging in completely silent yet intent conversation.

Ostaera listened to the goings on of Linnaeus’ small holdfast on the cusp of Tarth’s East Beacon where he was still running instaurations. The small castle had fallen into quite some disrepair since their cousin had left Tarth without another word almost five-and-ten years ago, and thus Linnaeus watched over the masons whenever he could. He had grandiose ideas for each room, colours and designs mixing in his mind as beautifully as the melodies he conjured out of thin air. ,

“It shall be ready and waiting no further than Mirella’s fifth name day” he explained importantly, a father’s pride shining through his words, “She is a wild thing and would profit from all the space.”

“Have you thought about the babe’s chamber yet?” Ostaera asked with great interest, quite admiring all her nieces and nephews already, “It should mirror Mirella’s in some way, like suns and moons.”

Linnaeus laughed one of his rare, true laughs that so greatly reflected their lord father: “My dear Ostaera, you must think badly of me if you assumed I did not follow some greater design.”

“I only shall think as badly of you as I deem fit, thank you very much” grinned Ostaera and Linnaeus ruffled her hair. Thankfully, it had been arranged into a rather intricate looking yet sturdy style by her maid this morning, making his attack on it pathetically ineffectual. Linnaeus half smiled, half despaired over it.

“I have arranged an engagement for your first dance of the night” Linnaeus added, as if it were a simple afterthought, “Lord Mertyns of the Mistwood asked to be introduced to you.”

“What do you make of him?”

Ostaera could not help letting a certain hopefulness slip into her tone. Mertyns. Great white horned owl on a grey field. No house words.

“A kind young man, not much older than yourself. He has fought a great many Tourneys, even won the joust once and conducts himself with a certain sense of honour.”

“You do not know him at all, do you” Ostaera stated, neither sad nor angry. It had happened more than once, and it would happen in the future still.

Linnaeus, his beautiful almost purple almond eyes locking with her own, did not pity her. He simply understood, even though her circumstances were never something he had to grasp.

“I apologize, Ostaera. I received a raven from him a fortnight ago, or rather Lady Ulrike sent it along to Tarth with a note. She does know him, but apart from her honest words I have nothing to offer you.”

“It is alright, though I wished you would stop lying to me” Ostaera sighed, “I am not as dull as not to notice all of you scheming with mother whenever you visit Evenfall Hall.”

“You are our little nestling” Linnaeus said smiling fondly, “Us older ones shall always endeavour to protect you.”

“I am the same age as Astraeon, if you care to remember, yet he merely got betrothed without some grand plan to find the softest spouse.”

“Well, our brother _is_ an idiot.”

“I resent that” Astraeon added, slightly bending over the table to look at their brother, “I simply am no meek womanfolk who weeps at every song sung by a man.”

“Do me the favour and slap him, will you?”

Ostaera did not wait for Linnaeus to fully voice his request, quickly slapping her twin over the head with her hand, retracting it before mother could truly notice.

The delighted mood held for the rest of the evening, the family filing out of the Hall slowly, and Ostaera made for her chambers in the east wing, located just a floor beneath that of her parents’ and in line with all of her siblings’ rooms. It used to be thoroughly delightful to go to bed, one sibling after the other entering their door only for at least one making for a sibling’s room the very next minute.

Now, however, only Ostaera and Astraeon remained here, the halls empty most of the time. It did not take long, however, for her twin to enter the chambers after quickly knocking.

He found his usual place atop the thick woven carpet, leaning against the dark rose coloured chaiselongue that Ostaera preferred, and staring into the fireplace as though it bore all the secrets of the known world in its depths.

“Is it cowardly of me to not want to marry this Lady Ramona?” he asked quietly, playing with a piece of golden fringe on the chaiselongue.

“I do not think so, no. But then again, I do not think most things you do are cowardly. Stupid, mayhaps, but not cowardly.”

“Thank you, somewhere in there you hid a compliment, I know it.”

“Assume away. But why now doubt the wedding?”

“It was alright to be betrothed when I was not to be married for many moon turns- when I did not even know my future wife’s name, but now? Now, it is one boat voyage and a couple of weeks away. I do not even get to be wed in our sept, but at Storm’s End instead.”

“You do not wish for that?”

Astraeon shook his head, his short pale hair floating through the air slowly: “Nay, I do not care for Storm’s End. But how could you refuse such an honour? Father knew Lord Ormund before he died, he knows Lord Steffon, Selwyn is great friends with Lord Baratheon and Lady Ramona’s is brother, too. There are too many lords to offend for my simple wish of being wed in another place.”

“And the tourney?”

“It’s a tradition now, is it not, and I do like tourneys. But to be married amidst one, with attendants from Highgarden to Riverrun joining in? It feels as if it was meant for someone else, someone greater than me.”

“I happen to think you are great, and certainly deserving of all manners of celebration.”

“You are too kind for this world, Ostaera” Astraeon laughed, taking her hand in his, “It has done nothing to deserve a soul like you.”

“I dare say!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet to avoid his grasp, racing with swishing skirts out the door once more and letting herself be chased by her much faster, much more agile twin for a moment, barely missing their lady mother on her way up a flight of stairs to her chambers, until she slanted exhausted against a doorway.

“Mark my words, I shall give you no more compliments until you are old and grey.”

“Mark my words” imitated Ostaera, “You always say so, and yet you still do.”

“Mayhaps, I am a greater liar than I thought” wondered Astraeon, leading her further down and into the gardens, “But that shall stop at once. A lord cannot lie.”

“I wish it were so, the world might be a different place.”

“That is another lie.”

The twins stayed in silence, unspoken words hanging between them, while they watched the sun set over the great gardens, glittering brightly on the calm sea with no storm in sight for once.

They departed their ship in Storm’s End very own port, a number of other vessels, both great and small, already resting in this more protected area of the bay.

They were greeted not only by a young Lord Baratheon, his wife and two sons (Robert and Stannis) beside him, but also a number of family members. Lady Jocelyn greeted her brother warmly, leaving Selwyn’s side at once, and Lady Ulrike, holding Mirella in a firm grasp, greeted her husband with a happy smile. She still blushed whenever he kissed her hand, as though she was surprised that Linnaeus was hers, truly. Pregnancy did suit her splendidly, Ostaera noticed, and she was due to deliver within a week of the wedding.

Then, there awaited her brother’s bride, and Ostaera looked her over on instinct, looking for a flaw in the unsuspecting lady. She was indeed as Ostaera remembered, sturdy but small, with brown curls and amber eyes. Beside her stood her brother and father, dressed impeccably to receive their new family in law.

Greetings were exchanged quickly, the betrothed couple left with a lady in waiting as chaperone, so that the parents may finalize the prenuptial agreement.

Slowly, the Tarths dispersed, and quickly Ostaera found herself quite alone on the dockside, sailors and lords loitering about. It had not happened for the first time that her family wandered off and left each other to their own devices, and still it surprised Ostaera. Especially, when they visited a place as often as they did the family seat of the Baratheons who held Tourneys, feasts and a great many celebrations regularly.

Setting her sight on the familiar castle of Storm’s End above her, Ostaera sought her own path through the throngs of people, knights mingling with squires, lords striding with great importance. She could spot the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock in passing, fluttering above a great galleon, and even a few of the infamous Lannisters themselves. Yet, Ostaera kept her distance.

The Sun of House Martell was raised as well, though not as prominently as the Stag of the Baratheons, of course.

Golden roses, red dragons and trouts, every major house and even more minor ones had sent someone, bar most northern holdfasts. Ostaera had never even seen the banner of House Stark in person before, and somehow it made them more mysterious than they already were. She wondered what it would take, what occasion, to make them leave their cold homeland?

Most likely the next royal wedding, or another war. The thought did not sit well with Ostaera and she, once more, pushed it away quickly.

Ascending the walkway into the tourney grounds felt as if she entered a different world altogether, more colours than she had ever seen on Tarth spilled into view as though a particularly vicious painter had dropped all of them onto a canvas with haphazard intent.

People were quite literally everywhere and Ostaera could feel the excitement crawl up her spine, a smile placing itself firmly on her lips, as she wandered through the rows upon rows of tents, each a different style with a different banner on top.

“Pardon me” came a deep voice from behind her, a hand coming to rest on her elbow and Ostaera got the quick impression of deep purple eyes, sun-kissed skin and a mischievous grin until the man in Dayne colours vanished into the chaos once again.

Undeterred, Ostaera continued her track across the fields, happening upon a tent in Tarth heraldry but did not stop on account of the disturbing noises reaching the outside.

As a principle family, especially due to the wedding and the impending birth, the Tarth delegation had been appointed rooms inside Storm’s End itself and, after the rather sobering experience in the grounds, Ostaera quickly found her way inside. Her blush did not fade until she found their lodgings and could press her cool hands against her red cheeks. How very embarrassing!

She could see Selwyn and his wife Jocelyn talking, the lady’s back resting against the cool stone of a nearby alcove while he stood imposingly over her. They were quietly talking amongst themselves and Ostaera, not wanting to be privy to a married couple’s intimacies (again), quickly squeezed through the door to her rooms. The perk of being the only unmarried girl in such a large family was that she always got rooms on her own, whereas Linnaeus and Astraeon had had to share before the elder got married.

Tiredly, trying not to be overwhelmed with the impressions she had already gathered today, Ostaera let herself fall without grace unto the brocade counterpane in black and gold thread, letting her feet dangle off the bed and swinging them back and forth every so often.

She must have dozed off, however, for when the knock from her maid woke her up quite rudely, the sky outside the paned window was considerably darker. Once the small girl, though everyone seemed somewhat small to Ostaera, with the silky black hair knotted and braided out of her round face, entered, the young Tarth felt wide awake.

“Viorel, have I slept too long?”

The grey eyed girl laughed heartily, though it taken many moon turns for the two to truly talk to one another.

“No, m’lady, I heard the Lord and Lady Tarth talk about your first set and thought, I should come earlier.”

“Not you, too. You should keep me sane, not join my family in their ventures” complained Ostaera, though not meaning her words, while she laced herself out of the sturdy leather boots she had worn aboard the ship and taking of her clove pink travelling cloak off as well.

“I do not remember agreeing to that.”

The girls exchanged glances, Ostaera pulling open the cotton bow at the small of her back and started loosening the dress all the while Viorel pulled out piece after piece of clothing from the elaborate wooden chest. White lace and blue fabric whirled through the air before landing on the bed in an organized heap.

“The whole of the Seven Kingdoms is in attendance, you could find a knight for yourself” said Ostaera, changing into the new undergarments and raising her arms, so that Viorel could put the small lattice and petticoat around her.

“I might just do that, my lady, one of them simply needs to ask for my favour and we are almost wed already. But do not forget about your own knight” teased Viorel from where she gathered the corset from the bedding, placing it expertly around her lady and started the well-practiced process of tightening it.

Ostaera rolled her eyes: “I do not have a knight, he will have forgotten me in favour of another lady. ‘I shall return once I have been knighted and ask for your hand’, seems likely.”

“There is a tent down on the field, purple with three white stripes across. If you wished to know.”

“Well” sighed Ostaera, “I did not wish to, but thank you nonetheless. You have become quite perceptive as of late, how did that happen?”

A dress made of silk was lifted over her head, muffling all sound, and as she came out the other side, placing her arms inside the fabric as well, she heard what Viorel had to say.

“The Lady Tarth talked to me, said that the chances were good, she could make an arrangement for you here during the celebrations. But she also…well” Viorel blushed, closing the innumerable buttons down Ostaera’s back.

“She also what?” asked Ostaera softly, trying to catch Viorel’s eye through the looking glass.

“Uhm…if I were not a better maid, she would find another to send with you- apparently I was not suitable to serve under a married woman.”

“That will not happen, do not fear. Even if I never need a maid again, I shall hide and take you with me wherever I go. You are a great friend, Viorel.”

The younger girl blushed happily, then pushed her highborn friend resolutely onto a cushioned stool in front of the vanity to take on Ostaera’s head of hair.

There was a moment of silence.

“Did you really see his coat of arms down there?”

Viorel smiled triumphantly: “Indeed, I did, and I think I also saw your knight. He wore a splendid suit of armour and tending to his horse, he probably also just arrived judging by the state he was in.”

“Or he was in the training yard” Ostaera thought aloud, while Viorel braided and arranged her hair in the twists and fashions she had learned from Lady Daerya. It apparently mirrored the customs from the Targaryen court, though it was now as old a style as Ostaera herself.

“That is me finished, m’lady” the girl said proudly, placing a last set of blue glass sun and moon pins around to secure her effort.

“Thank you, Viorel, you have outdone yourself. Now, get yourself ready. I shall not have you miss this feast on my account.”

With a beaming grin, the maid got out of the room and Ostaera could have sworn, she heard her steps turn into running as soon as she had closed the heavy door.

Ostaera smiled to herself, gazing at her reflection, before she resolutely got up. If the feast were to start soon, mother would certainly await her arrival in advance, as she was wont to do.

For a moment, Ostaera got used to the size of the skirts that were extending out from her hips and made her seem a good deal more shapely than she actually was. She had constructed it herself, helping sow all matters of pieces as well as finishing the embroidery. It was good work, but now, heading out into the hallways, Ostaera suddenly felt self-conscious.

The designs were inspired by the forms and patterns all over Evenfall Hall, but it was most likely not in style with the rest of Westeros. Even the colour, a dark, unassuming shade of teal felt rather unglamorous.

Passing a pair of armed guards in Baratheon livery, nodding to them as she walked by, Ostaera righted herself. These thoughts of impropriety, of not being enough in any regard, always wormed their way into her mind when she was about to face her mother.

For how could you not feel unsuitable when your mother was heralded as the _Amethyst of the Sea_ by sailors up and down the eastern coast of Westeros?

Ostaera knocked on her mother’s doors, trying and failing to push the thoughts away, and let herself in.

Dressed in a pastel violet that made her eyes stand out magnificently, her hair arranged in a deceivingly simple-seeming twist atop her head, Lady Daerya Tarth stood in front of the looking glass while turning about as to get a glimpse at all sides of herself.

“Ostaera” she greeted, smiling broader than she had at home, “You do look beautiful.”

“Thank you, mother.”

Elegantly facing her daughter, setting a set of dark silver jewellery against her alabaster skin, Lady Daerya beckoned Ostaera to sit down on the ottoman.

“Now, I have heard that a certain Ser Hasty has joined the lists a mere hour after we departed our ship.”

“Mother, it is no matter. He is a knight now, not some squire looking for a faster way to rise high in the world.”

“Nevertheless, there are things I wish to tell you. Things, I have told all of my children when the opportunity of a betrothal presented itself- and until now only your oldest brother has not listened to me.”

Ostaera felt her brows draw together.

“When I met your father” Lady Daerya began, a wistful expression settling on her face, “We were both quite…disillusioned with the world. I had just run away from court after my betrothed died, again, and I was in search of something I could not place. Back then, another tourney was held here, in these very halls and I met Lord Halcyon during the opening feast. I stood out, taller than most men, and only he did not seem to mind that I could look down on him so easily.”

Ostaera briefly thought that her mother had a very tame definition of ‘running away’, but could not hold her wishes against her. Lady Daerya might have been a prideful woman, always mindful of her heritage and the weight her parents’ name still carried two decades after their death, but she still was just that. A woman, a living breathing person.

“I was unsure then, whether I fell in love with Lord Halcyon but he awoke something in me. For the first time, I felt alive without anyone forcing it out of me. Tarth…Tarth was every dream I had ever chased away in the morning, freedom abound far away from the capitol. But we quickly learned that early love is not the strongest of its kind.”

Now Ostaera looked upon the other woman with more intent. She had always known her parents to be rather cold towards one another, yet you could not fault them for all they had achieved together in spite of their distance.

“When the War happened, I lost sight of what we were supposed to mean- I lost our child, too. Lord Halcyon returned and was a changed man, always gazing into nothingness and seeing the Gods know what. He spend rather a lot of time in Morne as well, were they had to bury his lady mother, then his father died too, the ship of the Seaworths sank just outside our harbour and” Lady Daerya sighed, “We just stopped whatever it was we did during that first magical tourney.”

Silence.

Ostaera was quite unsure as to what she was to take away from this story. She would not find that kind of wild, unrestrained love even if all her family tried to achieve it for her. That is not how this world worked, and Ostaera might not be happy about it but she would accept this truth.

Her lady mother fixed her with her sharp eyes, rimmed with darkened lashes and an unassuming purple pigment arranged around it, ere she started talking again.

“Your father and I are the Lord and Lady of an entire island, thus we cannot afford petty squabbles to get in our way. If we love one another, is not important- it is important, that our people- people depending on our competence and efforts- do not suffer. Our happiness never stood above the happiness of theirs, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

“But _your_ parents loved one another, right?”

“They did, indeed. And then Ser Duncan the Tall chose the Kingsguard over my lady mother, he even has more children in the other Seven Kingdoms if the tales are to be believed.”

That stumped Ostaera, she had of course known the famous stories of Dunk and Egg, two knights wandering Westeros in search of adventure, they had always been Selwyn’s favourite too. But she had never thought about what that might mean.

“Love is such a complicated beast” finished Lady Daerya, “Even though I always wanted my children to have their choice, and wanted to hide you from all the pain this world could throw at you, it seems I might lose that fight, too. It is a thankless endeavour, to be a mother with dreams bigger than herself.”

Another knock interrupted their companionable silence and without waiting for an answer, Lord Halcyon Tarth entered the room, the biggest grin Ostaera had ever seen on his face and a gleam in his eyes.

“You will not believe what I shall tell you, it is a glorious day, my lovely lady!” he called out, his voice surely carrying down the halls into the Bay itself.

Lady Daerya rose, receiving her husband with a smile of her own: “What is it, Hal?”

“Well, it seems we shall be grandparents once more. The Lady Jocelyn is pregnant, barely three moons along now.”

“Lady Jocelyn!” Ostaera asked, flabbergasted, “I thought, her and Selwyn had yet to say more than their vows?”

“Apparently” Lord Halcyon shared conspiratorially, “They have snuck into each other’s chambers for more than half a year now, but did not talk during the day. Until now, Lady Jocelyn is quite overjoyed and Selwyn has promised me to take on more responsibilities.”

“You are a fool, if you believe our son will become a proper lord within the next hours” laughed Lady Daerya, letting herself be twirled underneath Lord Halcyon’s arms with a giggle.

Ostaera never heard her mother giggle.

Her brother would be a father soon, two wives with child and who knew how long before Astraeon would have a small family of his own, too.

Yet, Ostaera wondered, where did that leave her?

Deciding to not wallow in self-pity, neither tonight nor tomorrow, Ostaera followed her parents out of the door and down the stairs towards the Ballroom of Storm’s End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter. I look very much forward to your opinions on Ostaera and her family.
> 
> All constructive critisism and reviews are very much appreciated.  
> A few of my own thoughts before I leave you: 
> 
> Evenfall Hall is very much inspired by Art Nouveau and Art Deco designs in terms of windows, doors and structured. It is not something we have seen or read about yet, but I thought the aesthetic would match both Tarth and the ASOIAF Canon in general.
> 
> In GRRM's works and timelines a few weird things are going on, f.e. that Selwyn and his wife either suffered through multiple miscarriages or indeed Galladon was born very late in comparison to other families. Neither are mentioned by Brienne in her chapters thus far.
> 
> Our dearest GRRM is also not open in regards to the exact events that lead to "recent Targaryen heritage" on Tarth, but most speculate a sister of Aemon's and Aegon V's to be involved somehow. I went with that, including Ser Duncan the Tall since it is theorized he is somewhere in the family tree, too. 
> 
> In regards to Ostaera and her siblings themselves: I want to write them as their own characters, not usurping those of people already existing and living within the universe. That means, there is not going to be a Brienne 0.5 type figure, and Ostaera and Cordelia will not struggle in the same way Brienne did, concerning her appearance. More on that, anon.
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird
> 
> P.S: On my other fanfics (those that have the same dimension as this work) I usually add specific questions/notes about the chapter I have for you, the reader, so you can structure a review around it more easily. Or as a summary of sorts, which can be helpful when a lot of time has passed between uploads. Would you be interested in such a thing?


	3. Rhaegar I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dynasty is dying, but what do the dead care for it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone, 
> 
> I hope you had a nice couple of days, and that you will enjoy this next chapter.
> 
> Once more, allow me to introduce another important character in this whole endeavour (and canon as well), Prince Rhaegar Targaryen himself.

#  **Rhaegar I**

The Prince of Dragonstone stared down at the oblong marble tile that had been placed over the remains of what would have been his younger brother.

His only brother, or other sibling, for that matter. He had held Jaehaerys in his arms when he was barely two days old, taking him out of his tired, pale but happy mother’s arms, and looking down upon this bundle that had lived.

And live he did. The screams of Jaehaerys echoed down the corridors of the Red Keep, not too far from Prince Rhaegar’s own chambers, and sometimes Rhaegar still awoke in the middle of the night, hearing his brother’s wail. Then he remembered that Jaehaerys did not live, and the thought alone sunk him deep into the soft pillows, unable to fall asleep for the remainder of the night.

Once, when he had attended his first funeral at the age of eight, Rhaegar had made the silent vow to call his child the name of his dead sister. Back then, it had only been one name- Shaena- the letters engraved in a black marble piece in the Great Sept of Baelor. Now, however, she was joined by four of her little brothers. Even the one Rhaella did not name, Rhaegar remembered.

Shaena.

Daeron.

The Unnamed, Rhaegar called Aemon in his mind.

Aegon.

And now, Jaehaerys.

Rhaegar lifted his gaze from the polished stone with the names of his brothers, and it fell upon his lady mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaella Targaryen. She was clothed entirely in heavy black fabrics, a high collar closing around her thin neck, the long silver gold hair braided so as to hold the heavy crown resting atop her head.

Her eyes were closed, the hands folded stiffly as she knelt in front of the statue of the Mother in silent prayer. She had started praying more often, leaving the Red Keep at every hour of the day and night to seek respite, solace even, inside the halls of Baelor the Blessed.

Being here also got her away from her brother husband, Aerys II Targaryen. The Mad King, a moniker bestowed upon him by nobles and smallfolk alike, also had become increasingly restless. When he sat the Iron Throne, he shouted at his Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister.

When he did not sit the Iron Throne, he wandered around the dark underbellies of the Keep, whispering to himself about fire, blood and treason.

It was one of the reasons, Rhaegar often found himself in the library where his father seldom made his way. If it were not for the tales of Ser Barristan Selmy, Rhaegar’s most trusted Kingsguard member, Rhaegar would have despaired a long time ago. The spritely knight, not having reached his fortieth name day yet, was a great source of tales of days gone by.

He had served the Kingsguard for one and a half decades, having met legendary warriors and fought with them. Ser Barristan, now following behind the Crown Prince too, was also the only member of the esteemed order that Rhaegar had trusted with his secret ventures into the city.

“Where to now, Prince Rhaegar?” the man asked, once they had passed the threshold and stepped into the burning sun. Once more Rhaegar regretted to have worn so much black.

“The Red Keep, Ser Barristan, mayhaps we could take on another lesson in the training yard?”

The knight smiled kindly: “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar sat upon his Dornish sand steed, a gift from mother’s former lady in waiting Princess Hemera Nymeros Martell, and barely waited for Ser Barristan to mount his horse before he lead the way down Visenya’s Hill and towards the Red Keep.

From his horse, catching the eye of all they rode past, Rhaegar surveyed the great city he called home. Though, in his mind, it barely qualified as great in any other regard than sheer size.

It smelled so horribly, the odour must have reached the Gods by now, the houses seemed to fall into each other more often than not, and the streets were filled with orphans, beggars and veterans alike. When Rhaegar sat in his solar, his favourite harp resting between his fingers, and he let his mind wander, he thought about all he would change. All the laws he would enforce, buildings he would raise and glory he would reinstate.

Yet, like his father in his youth, Rhaegar never knew where to begin such a quest. Lord Lannister, the true ruler, would most certainly fix him with his piercing green eyes and not say a word were Rhaegar to approach him. No, the man responsible for the demise of two great Houses would not be empathetic to the plight of the smallfolk.

Mostly, Rhaegar feared Lord Lannister, sometimes more so than his own father. For as unpredictable as King Aerys had become, Lord Lannister’s demeanour made Rhaegar think that he already had a contingency plan for each member of the royal family in case of an emergency. What such an emergency might entail, Rhaegar wished not to ponder most days. Sometimes, he did anyway. 

High above them, overlooking the entirety of King’s Landing, rested the Red Keep on Aegon’s Hill. Grand Maester Pycelle, a man growing older rapidly every time Rhaegar happened upon him, had taught the Prince about all the great castles he would come to rule.

House Targaryen might have been the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms for millennia, yet their castles were apparently disappointingly small. Rhaegar, who had only ever seen Casterly Rock and Dragonstone in his life, found that easy to believe and most ironic.

Simply reading about the sights of the Eyrie of House Arryn, impregnable without dragons, or the moats of Riverrun, made him wonder quite often how the Targaryens had been able to remain as Kings for so long.

The answer, as with all things Old Valyria, was dragons of course.

 _The Last Dragon_ is what his father liked to call himself- completely disregarding his entire remaining family. His broken mind seemed to push all remembrance of Summerhall away, no other explanation made sense to Rhaegar.

Lately, the King had developed a new obsession with the blood rituals performed by Shadow Binders in Asshai. Thankfully, the Hand had thus far been unable (and unwilling) to acquire such a person, citing the inability to send ships further than the _Gulf of Grief_ as a reason. How long Aerys would listen to the clearly fabricated reports handed to him by Lord Tywin, was anyone’s guess.

They passed the Guildhall that was currently being restored to house said Shadow Binders once they arrived.

“What do you make of this endeavour, Ser?” asked Rhaegar when they had made their way through the great gatehouse into the central courtyard of the Red Keep.

Targaryen Banners fell down on both sides of the great double doors, fluttering in the slight breeze from Blackwater Bay.

“I do not know the workings of magic, Your Grace” the Kingsguard answered, letting his horse be led off by a stable boy, “Yet I have heard the smallfolk talk, they are quite afraid. Everything east of Braavos warrants their mistrust.”

“Our people are sensible, then. At least, when it comes to Asshai.”

“Magic is gone from the world, too, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar smiled sorrowfully at the Kingsguard and was quickly interrupted in his ventures into the Red Keep by the Grand Maester who had clearly awaited his arrival, for he was wringing his hands, a panicked look in his pale eyes.

“Your Grace!” he rambled loudly, striding closer, his chain clinking, “Your Grace! You must come immediately, the King he…”

There was a long pause.

“He what, Grand Maester” snapped Rhaeger, irritated that his father would ruin his day once more. Which maid did he order tortured and beheaded this time? Was it not enough that mother feared him, did he need to be this cruel even now?

“He has refused his midday meal, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar blinked, caught off guard by the words the Maester had exhaled rather than actually said.

“How compelling” he answered, “Now, do you wish to trouble me with more tales of my father’s latest ideas?”

With that, Rhaegar strode past the Maester into the Entrance Hall of the Red Keep and, after a moment’s contemplation, he made for the Throne Room instead of his personal chambers, feeling rather annoyed and angry.

Atop the Iron Throne, the hall mostly abandoned at this hour since nobles had to eat some time during the day, sat the lonely figure of King Aerys II.

Rhaegar strode his way past the great skulls of the dragons his ancestors had once commandeered, nodded in the direction of a group of cleaning maids and servants who were working away while hiding in the shadows. A smart decision.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Prince Lewyn Martell and Ser Harlan Grandison were standing sentry, the absent Kingsguard accompanying the Queen during her hours of prayer.

The Hand of the King, him being the only Small Council member to never take his meals at the same time as the others, was in a conversation with the King though whether either was truly interested in the exchange was questionable.

“Your Grace” the Lord Commander greeted, nodding to Ser Barristan.

That, at least, seemed to get the older men’s attention, Lord Lannister descending the steel steps with a regal air until he stood a mere three steps above Rhaegar.

“Your Grace” the Lion greeted, “You have chosen an unfortunate time to return from your ventures. His Grace, the King, has declared his mourning period of Prince Jaehaerys to encompass a fortnight of fasting. It seems, the demise of the prince’s wet nurse as well as the untimely departure of His Grace’s mistress has thrown Him into a darker mood than anticipated.”

“Thank you for the information, Lord Hand. I had encountered the Grand Maester, but the man was barely coherent.”

“It was decided by His Grace that during this fourteen day time, you should sit the Iron Throne. King Aerys has chosen to dedicate more time to his sister wife, to reflect on his reign and give you the opportunity to learn what your future holds for you.”

In short, Lord Lannister had finally found a way to test Rhaegar as to his abilities as a ruler and whether he was sane enough to be betrothed to his daughter. Nevertheless, Rhaegar graciously bowed his head to the Hand.

“I look forward to hearing your counsel, Lord Hand” and with a last look over at his mumbling, strangely contemplative father, Rhaegar left the Throne Room through the side door reserved for members of the royal family.

“They do say, good follows great tragedy” commented Ser Barristan neutrally, not noting on the different way the Prince had decided to turn.

“Let us hope, no more great tragedies are needed nevertheless. Lord Lannister is a shrewd man, and I do not doubt, he will put me in situations that he expects me to fail. The question is what he shall decide should I not satisfy him.”

“You were born to rule, Your Grace.”

“You flatter me. After all I have read about the Targaryen dynasty, I have long come to the conclusion that a boy born to rule seldom grows into a true king. If he grows at all, that is. Look at me, Ser Barristan, as a knight would any of his squires, and tell me whether I would make a good knight.”

Ser Barristan pondered the task for a second.

“I do, Prince Rhaegar. You have a melancholy about you, a calmness of mind. You might not be the best fighter yet, but your mind has remained your most sharply honed weapon.”

“But on what deeds, Ser, could I grow my kingdom?”

“Your Grace?”

Entering the library’s upper levels, the entire three story room opening beneath them, Rhaegar gestured towards the tomes, scrolls and reports written about and by the Targaryens ever since Aegon the Conqueror set foot on Westeros.

“Look at all these tales, Ser Barristan. The greatest kings have _done_ something, most before they ascended the Iron Throne. Aegon the Unlikely, traveling from Sunspear to The Wall, living a life worth its own kingdom before being called here. When I think of what a king I would like to be, I have to think of all that I not yet am. Who am I, to rule these men and women outside the Keep’s walls if I have never known them?”

“A romantic idea, My Prince, surely.”

“A fool’s idea, you mean. I take no offence, Ser Barristan, I merely like to reflect. Aeons of history that shall rest on my shoulders when my father dies, how could you uphold such a legacy and not feel inadequate.”

The knight nodded.

“Mayhaps I should write to Uncle Aemon more often” Rhaegar continued, leading the Kingsguard down a set of winding stairs engraved with dragons and words in High Valyrian, to reach a section on the most current politics.

“A wise decision, Your Grace, his council has proven invaluable many times before.”

The rest of the day was spent between books rather than practicing his sword technique, only interrupted by a page boy that informed him, the Queen had returned to the Red Keep and would be joining him for dinner.

Ser Barristan had taken up a position next to Rhaegar’s favourite desk, pushed up against one of the few bay windows in the library that showed a view over his mother’s gardens as well as a sliver of the Blackwater on the horizon. Every so often, you could see the distant flicker of a banner or a mast shift past, and Rhaegar interrupted his musings on the policies of the Westerlands briefly with the stories those sailors could tell him. Ser Barristan told him such stories whenever asked.

Only once a certain darkness had settled over the city that never truly slept, Rhaegar made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast where his lady mother had been confined in for much of the last years. That she was granted leave in the wake of her babe’s death, was a small boon and yet both the Queen as well as her son would rather exchange the boy for either of their freedom.

Her table was filled with her favourite dishes, a carafe of white wine awaiting nearby, and Rhaegar helped Rhaella into her seat once she arrived.

“You look exhausted, my son” she greeted, her voice melodious yet subdued, a permanent pianissimo, “I hope, your father has not sent you on another errant?”

“On the contrary” he could not mistake the gladness in her eyes, “I had a short conversation with Lord Tywin. It was decided I should take on father’s tasks for the next fortnight while he mourns Jaehaerys.”

“That is a good thing. Mayhaps it will relax his mind, he can scarcely look at me anymore. Where I worried for his opinion, I would put greater care into my appearance.”

Rhaegar smiled at that.

“I have received a raven from Storm’s End, where the Tourney’s first day has ended without incident. I do so wish, your father would have let you leave but now I am glad he did not. You shall need your wits about you.”

“Indeed, I believe so” Rhaegar cut into the salmon with lemon dressing, “the fact that the tourney shall end and the court will return in full force during that period…it makes me wonder how long Lord Tywin has been talking in father’s ear.”

“Be careful what you put into the world, Rhaegar” Rhaella admonished, “You sound as if you accused Lord Tywin of killing the King’s son.”

“Hypothetically” Rhaegar said calmly, “He certainly is the type, and he would not stop at children either.”

“You may speak the truth” she answered carefully, still holding onto the idea of her lady in waiting Joanna Lannister vehemently.

They had once all been great friends, the Targaryens, the Martells and the Lannisters- the undefeatable triumvirate of the southern Lords Paramount. Watching it decay year after year must break Rhaella’s heart further than it already was.

“So, then” the Queen began, “Were you king and could decide to your heart’s content who would sit on the Small Council, which Tyrell would you chose?”

Rhaegar smiled: “You are one step ahead, mother. Do enlighten me.”

“The Lady Olenna Tyrell has earned herself the title of Queen of Thorns, and according to my sources at Storm’s End, she is a smart woman with yet undetermined motives. She was once betrothed to my uncle, Daeron, but it was not upheld and from what I remember, the Tyrells also do not hold a great regard for our family. Too many broken betrothals, Lord Luthor was to marry my mother. It would have been a good match and Lady Tyrell’s smarts would be a great resource for the crown, still, and have the added bonus of keeping the Tyrells close.”

“Even so, the lords would never let me appoint a woman.”

“I am well aware, but you are to be king Rhaegar. Challenge them. Do not wander the same paths as your predecessors did, try to think of the implications and webs of mistrust that have been spun. The realm is the closest to breaking apart it has been for centuries. Every step a Targaryen has taken these last decades has been closely watched and not one has yet to convince our lords that we are not a dying dynasty” Rhaella said, a disturbingly calm fire burning behind her eyes, her demeanour never betraying her true feelings.

“They would rather overthrow me, finally ending the Targaryen rule that has been crippled for some time now” echoed Rhaegar, a familiar feeling of despair and panic rising inside him. His mother had confirmed all his darkest fears, about what a kingdom he was bound to inherit if his own father did not manage to sunder it apart on accident. He had known these things, somewhere in his mind’s recesses they had been collecting, but now they were inevitably presented in such a fashion that he might never let them fall into safe obscurity again.

“That they would indeed. How would you fix that?” his mother asked, waking him out of his circling thoughts. It made him wonder for how long she had been dealing with these unavoidable truths.

“Before making changes in the council” Rhaegar began slowly, working his way through every wayward notion to put together something comprehensive, “I would have to strengthen the relationships to the other kingdoms. One path is quite obvious, choosing one of their daughters as queen could grant such an alliance. The Lady Cersei seems like the obvious choice.”

“Really?” asked Rhaella critically, her right eyebrow rising elegantly, “Elaborate.”

“She gives the crown the backing of the Westerlands, its goldmines and secures the alliance of Lord Tywin.”

“Ah, but it would never endear any other Lord Paramount and thus no other kingdom. Most despise Lord Lannister for his deeds at Castamere and Tarbeck Hall, and more so now that this truly horrid song has stayed longer than anyone really wanted it to. I would propose another alliance.”

Rhaegar waved as to indicate that he was still listening.

“Consider House Tully, mayhaps House Arryn. They are the centre of Westeros and largely unaffiliated with the crown until now. The Riverlands are one of the most prosperous regions, and Lord Hoster, Lord Paramount of the Trident, even has a daughter not much younger than yourself. Their words would project the ideals you wish to reintroduce, deviating from previous rulers. _Family, Duty, Honour_ \- all aspects our family is lacking in severely.”

“They have a younger daughter, too, she could be wed to Lord Jaime as recompense.”

“Though I suspect, Lord Tywin never would accept, the plan is a good start. The Kingdoms have sat idle for too long, not enough bonds securing peace in the Realms.”

“Would it not be better, to have the Realm be split as it was before the conquest?”

“That, my son, is both the solution and the problem itself. Give each Lord Paramount a crown once more, and everyone would seek to better their station. The peace might last a generation, but before long, one will want to expand their territories. It would also open up the opportunity for more scheming men like Lord Tywin to become the next King of the Seven Kingdoms by right of conquest. It would endear no one, estrange the North completely, break multiple agreements that rely solely on the fact that Westeros has one ruler: It leaves us open to an invasion from Essos, too, another rebellion.” 

“You are wearing that crown well, mother.”

She did, truly. It was a shame that she would never sit the Iron Throne, and Rhaegar would like to become as politically savvy and informed as her one day, for such a ruler could inspire all his subjects. 

“I thank you, however there is never a day where I do not wish to take it off- that it was never bestowed upon me.”

“You never told me, why you were married to father” Rhaegar asked, for the first time truly curious what had landed his parents in the situation they found themselves in.

“It all has to do with this _prophecy_ ” Rhaella’s eyes clouded over, “Jenny of Oldstones brought an elderly woman to court, a woods witch apparently. I liked my uncle, I even liked his wife, lowborn though she was, but that day…I curse that day. The woods witch claimed that the _Prince that was Promised_ would be born from mine and Aerys’ line and though we never felt more than a sibling’s affection for each other, the bond was sanctioned in the eyes of the Gods.”

“Do you believe the prophecy?”

“I do not know, Rhaegar, truly. Knowing what it means to be Targaryen, though magic has long left this world, I found it intriguing. It has something fantastical about it, but you should ask Aemon, he knows more about these things than I.”

“I wanted to ask him for advice anyway, perhaps I could enclose the topic in my letter.”

Rhaella smiled: “Aemon always had a heart for stories, and I wished he would not be so far north. He found the right words when I despaired of Aerys, he does every time, and he is the only one whose words seem to wake something more refined in my husband.”

“He does his duty” Rhaegar added, “Something a great many in our family have recently forgotten. Every time I open a recollection of events to prepare for Lord Lannister and court, I find another addendum about who refused to marry whom.”

“It is not an easy thing, my son, to swear your life to someone whom you do not love. Especially, when your heart belongs to another.”

“But you did.”

“I did, and see where I am today. I have lost father, mother, all my siblings and most of my children. My only true friends are dead or so far away that merely carefully worded letters can be exchanged. The dynasty is dying, but what do the dead care for it? They have lived their lives, spent their days in the sun of Summerhall and celebrated their undying love to their spouses. I cannot pity them, and neither am I angry- for if I had had a choice six-and-ten years ago, I would have chosen love as well.”

The unsaid curse at the woods witch flowed between each word, though the tone itself was not spiteful. Rhaella was too kind a person to feel spite. She stared at the red candle in the centre of the table, before raising her eyes at him.

“But the Gods have given me you, and I shall forever be grateful for it. It might be unkind of me, to burden you with these thoughts but you have to know all, to truly protect yourself. You will never marry for love- that we both know. Even if you threatened to abdicate, as many before you, she would be taken from you. Aerys and Lord Tywin, it is not in them to be soft in the face of love.”

“I do not even know if I am fashioned for love, as they say” Rhaegar admitted, one of his darkest secrets, “I have looked upon a great deal of ladies, pretty and plain, rich and poor and every measure in between and yet…none inspire me to write the most beautiful poetry, nor to beg them for their favour in a tourney or to put a crown atop their head. How can that be?”

“Mayhaps you have not found the right lady yet, mayhaps it is no lady at all or it may truly not be in your nature. Yet, I doubt the latter. It will find you, in the most unexpected turns and when it does” she rested her hands atop his own, “cherish it for as long as you can, the memory will serve you through your most trying hour. There is a magic in it even I cannot deny, but I doubt it could birth a dragon.” 

“Not that it would matter, since all the eggs are gone.”

“I should hope not. Summerhall might have been destroyed, but _perzys zaldrīzi sēnagon kostos daor_. It could be possible, there might be more in the Ruins of Old Valyria, Asshai or on Dragonstone” the subject was quite clearly not her favourite but she still humoured him with her theories. It was another reason why Rhaegar so greatly loved his mother.

“Well, I shall find one and gift it to you. You would be the only one deserving of being a dragon rider.”

“Rhaegar” Rhaella was slightly exasperated, pushing an artfully curled strand of her behind her ear, “I do not know of dragons, they have shadowed my steps for all my life and I should be quite glad to not have an actual one resting in the gardens while I fight another inside these walls. They sound so glorious, so magnificent, but I do not know whether they would still seek us out after all. We have disappointed them, and they might decide that we are not worthy of them any longer.”

“You fear, a dragon would be our doom?”

“It seems to me, that only dragons destroy dragons.”

Rhaegar was unsure as what to say to that. Sensing the evening to have come to a rather unpleasant end, Rhaegar rose from his seat and, with a nonetheless loving word of goodnight, left for his own chambers outside the Holdfast.

Only dragons destroy dragons. What curious words.

He was well aware of the true meaning his mother had wanted to impart but it made him wonder, whether the inverse was true as well. Only dragons could restore dragons.

A shudder worked its way down his spine as he thought about the implication, for he would rather not be wed to his own sister. Not that it mattered, not even Aerys would declare the crown prince betrothed to a babe.

Rhaegar wished, he had asked his mother what she thought of her husband’s latest idea.

Fasting- and for a fortnight even.

Whether the king would make it through those days was a different matter altogether, but Rhaegar did not doubt it. As of late, his father had become quite determined when it came to the smallest ideas. It often ended in death.

Mayhaps it would be the right time to mention a betrothal, especially when the work with Lord Tywin proved to be fruitful.

House Tully, then, Rhaegar thought. At the very least, it would present a certain astuteness to the Hand even though it was a clear slight against him. The phrasing should be chosen with utmost care, not insulting House Lannister and the Lady Cersei herself. How you would even insult a girl seven years your junior, and whom you had never met, was beyond his comprehension.

She could be the most beautiful, wondrous and exquisite creature to have ever walked the Realms of Men and it would not matter. Neither to Rhaegar personally, nor to any discussions of marriage.

And if he fell in love with her when he met her, then he would not change his decision. No, Rhaegar vowed silently, he could not marry solely for love if it broke the kingdoms as a result.

 _The Prince that was Promised_ , he remembered suddenly, never having heard such a foreboding phrase. It must be quite the tale, to be worthy of marrying brother and sister solely on the words of one woman. Why should he be promised?

Rhaegar turned a corner, having found his way back to the library though now on one of the lower levels. Knowing, the prophecy would not leave his mind for the night- a night he could not sleep through anyway, Rhaegar let himself be pulled inside in the search of answers.

Another very Old Valyrian concept, mystery. It seemed ingrained in their identity as Targaryens: the secrecy, the dragons, the unknown quality of their true power and now prophecy, too.

It would be quite nice to have one’s life be written already, no room for error in the margins, no wrong choices. You simply had to follow what the Gods had determined to be your destiny, to serve the greater good even though you might never see the legacy you left behind.

A new idea found its way to the forefront of his mind as he perused the bound tomes of the last few decades, where the prophecy would be mentioned and referenced. Mayhaps he should seek out someone who could ease his mind, tell him if he was to be a good king or a terrible one.

‘A silly notion’ the young man, barely five-and-ten, scolded himself, ‘Even if it were true, what then?’

Finally, he found the thin booklet he had been searching for, a parchment tag attached to it so you could read the title easier. One of the few inventions Maestar Pycell had implemented that were actually useful.

Opening the pages that must not have been read since the book had been placed between thick recollections of King Aegon V, as well as King Jaehaerys II, and sitting down Rhaegar marvelled at the beautiful artwork.

Since it was, sadly, not Ser Barristan but instead the Lord Commander who stood now guard a few paces away, Rhaegar kept his words to himself. He would tell his favoured knight on the morrow.

The second page was filled with a detailed painting in reds, golds and dark silver, depicting a flaming sword with a dragon’s head as the pommel. In the shadows, one could almost make out the shape of a helmet or chest plate, but the detailing on the sword is what caught his attention the most.

It was Valyrian Steel, the black and silver pattern on the blade rippling with oranges and yellows, seeming as if the fire was coming from the metal itself. It must be a legendary weapon, mayhaps Blackfyre?

Turning the page once more, the fine even script of a maester was telling the tale of the day the woods witch had entered the halls of the Red Keep.

_She bowed before the King, then, the Lady Jenny of Oldstones stepping back as to allow the strange woman to present her plea._

_“My King” her voice was thin, ageless, “I have seen fire and ice in the future of the Realm. There shall come a day when Winter has returned, and it shall mark the day the world will end.”_

_“Why do you tell me this, witch?” the King asked, not unkindly._

_“I have also spied mankind’s only hope, for there will be a prince born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star, and he shall bear the flaming sword to fell Winter itself. But he cannot stand alone, the Dragon has three heads.”_

_“Go on then, what is needed to prevent this evil from taking us?”_

_“The Dragons shall return, rising in answer of the Great Other” the witch said, a voice not her own echoing out of her frail body, “They shall be born from the twice sacred union of blood with blood.”_

_Thus, the woods witch left after having said her piece._

_It was decided, that the Prince Aerys and the Princess Rhaella shall be wed for the good of the Realm, though the King voiced his doubt of the woman’s words._

_It has since been determined, that the woods witch was claiming that Azor Ahai, sometimes called ‘The last hero’ in northern folklore, will return to Westeros to end the Long Night, a northern tale that speaks of a great evil in the Lands of Always Winter. It is said to have happened thousands of years before the Conquest, a “terrible darkness” that befell the entire continent and came in the midst of a long winter. According to books [XXI, IV], the Long Night lasted an entire generation. More information will be added anon._

Rhaegar read through the report of the Grand Maester several times, each time picking up on another aspect. For one, he did indeed not add further information, the rest of the already thin tome empty apart from scrawls that resembled Maester Aemon’s handwriting to a certain extend.

He had doubted the words of the prophecy, up until the text mentioned that it had happened before. That must have been what convinced King Aegon V, too, for Rhaegar knew from his father’s ramblings that the man had not been a supporter of the Targaryen tradition to wed brother to sister. Yet, he had allowed it.

The man who had undoubtedly seen more of Westeros than any other King before and after him, had believed the words of this woman. The man with experiences to fill a thousand pages was convinced by them, put stock in their claims.

Azor Ahai, a fanciful name indeed.

The last hero sounded a lot more foreboding. Rhaegar could not shake the sense of dread when he read the words once more, now turning to the little addendum by his uncle. Years of reading his letters, deciphering it was no more arduous to him than speaking in High Valyrian. As Aemon was fond of the language, it came to no surprise that he had written his thoughts on the woods witch in the ancient tongue as well.

The page his words were written on were of a different make than those of the book, most likely because he had been in Oldtown or at the Wall when writing them. The first words confirmed Rhaegar’s suspicion.

_The Northerners that serve in the Night’s Watch have all grown up with tales of the Long Night and Others, though most believe them to be naught more than a child’s bedtime story. Every recollection featured certain details. A pact had been made by the “Last Hero” during the Long Night that united the men of the Night’s Watch and the Children of the forest under one banner. Their enemy has been called either the Others or White Walkers, depending on the teller. One man, born in Winterfell, tells the most compelling version which I am most confident in. He referenced things to kill these Others (“iron and fire and the touch of the sun”) making the defeat of these creatures more plausible than the efforts of one hero. The man was also confident that the Others were able to raise the corpses of the dead to join their cause, an aspect that has been corroborated thus far. The Last Hero reportedly used a blade forged of dragonsteel (which might either be Valyrian Steel or dragon glass in actuality) that burst into flames when plunged into his enemies. How you would go about forging such a weapon, I could not determine here, though the Great Citadel might hold further answers._

Then, a newer page had been placed inside, a little smaller than the others.

_The legend of the Prince that was Promised could be found in a great many other sources and now, years after it has been spoken in the court of my brother, I am confident that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is to be the one._

_When he was born, the fires of Summerhall were burning, fulfilling the smoke aspect while the salt is found in the tears of my niece, as she wept for our family. The bleeding star seen across the known world the night Rhaegar was born, only confirms my thoughts on the matter. This boy might well be the last hope for the Realm of Men should Winter come once more to Westeros._

Shaking, Prince Rhaegar let the book sink unto the table. Aemon Targaryen was one of the most learned men in the family, nay all of Westeros!, and here he had written his doubtlessly well put together ideas concerning this matter.

A matter, according to the Maester, of life and death.

 _‘I am no hero’_ Rhaegar thought in despair, ‘ _And yet, the world has need of me._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are at the end.  
> Thank you very much for reading and reviewing this chapter. Ratings are very much appreciated.
> 
> What do you make of our Prince of Dragonstone this far?  
> What about the Queen herself? (Also, is it weird that the phrase "sister wife" sounds normal to me, but "brother husband" does not? Any thoughts on that?)
> 
> The whole fasting thing after Jaehaerys' death is straight from canon, Aerys is not yet in his stage of burning people as Duskendale has not happened yet, either. He does kill a lot of women rather cruelly in the interim, though.
> 
> Writing the politics of Westeros twenty years before what we as readers experience, is quite weird. No player of the game has yet to enter the stage, no Varys, no Cersei, no Littlefinger. The question of whom takes their places, remains.
> 
> Finally, the prophecy. To me, as someone who works with people writing scientific articles etc and studies science herself, it seemed natural that someone like a Grand Maester would likely look facts up, reference them and write his findings into new booklets- especially on demand of someone like King Aegon V. 
> 
> We, and Rhaegar as well, have also just scratched the surface of what the PtwP entails. 
> 
> Lastly, I would like to add, that Ostaera and Rhaegar are going to be...let's say a difficult story, not rehashing Lyanna/Rhaegar or Elia/Rhaegar in their dynamics. It will also take some time before we actually see them in the same chapter.
> 
> With that, I shall bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne


	4. Emmerich I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I promised her, alright, I couldn’t just appear and ask for her hand without fucking being something.”   
> “You could have been fucking something for five years though, is all I’m saying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone,  
> First, a big thank you to **RedAquilla** for commenting on my last chapter- thus, this one is dedicated to you and I hope it meets your expectations.
> 
> We meet yet another POV character, a young knight from House Hasty who is currently in attendance at the Tourney of Storm's End.

#  **Emmerich I**

The Ballroom of Storm’s End was filled to the brim with people, and Emmerich Hasty let himself be led by his friend, Ser Alesan Thorne, through the masses.

They passed swooning maidens, giggling into each other’s ears and casting seductive glances their way, and drunken lords on their way to the High Table to extend their thanks to Lord Baratheon. It was always well regarded when a man knew his customs, and Emmerich intended to be quite well regarded, indeed.

The music had not yet picked up, everyone still revelling in each other’s company and introducing people left and right, but soon enough the night would begin properly. It was his first true feast since he had been knighted a mere three moon turns ago, and he had a few reasons to be here tonight.

One was walking ahead of him, Alesan was prone to getting crotchety when he had to be alone and Emmerich did not need a crotchety friend. They had been knighted the same day, having travelled together for almost four years beforehand though they were serving different knights.

Emmerich had squired for Ser Oskar Merryweather, younger brother to the Lord of Longtable, while Alesan had squired for Ser Loras Caswell of Bitterbridge, the pair good friends all their lives.

“Fucking finally” cursed Alesan when they had made it all the way across the hall, “Why do you insist on being such a dalcop all the time?”

“I just aim higher than you do” Emmerich laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “You have already found yourself a sweet lady who gifted you her favour.”

“Aye, and I keep her waiting so you can be all good and knight-ly.”

“Oi, Emmerich, Alesan!” called the voice of one of their companions from somewhere on the left.

Turning, they saw him resting casually against one of the stone pillars that lined the hall, a pint of ale in one hand, a maid in the other.

“By the Gods!” Emmerich exclaimed over the many voices surrounding them, “Have they finally unfrozen you!”

The man grinned, his blond hair and blue eyes blinking down at them. He was as tall as Emmerich remembered.

“Ser Gerold bloody Hardyng!” Alesan added, embracing their old friend from the Vale whom they had not seen for two years. The man had to go and get himself knighted, wed and with child all within a single moon’s turn.

What a bastard, Emmerich thought grinning.

“Why is it, every time we meet some of your friends, another curse gets added to your name, love?” asked Lady Harriet.

Gerold had the decency to look briefly ashamed, but broke out of it when he caught her laughing. He had found a fine woman to marry, indeed.

“Bloody might not be the best one to choose” answered Alesan, “He has achieved quite the lot when we travelled with him.”

“As I have heard. You seemed quite intent while walking past. I hope, we did not stop an important business?”

“No, my lady, this here knight has decided to finally reveal himself to the lady of his heart” Alesan jeered, before Emmerich could even open his mouth.

“Took you long enough” Gerold added, raising his cup to Emmerich in mock respect.

“How sweet!”

“It is sweet, until you learn he has spoken to her no more than ten times five years ago.”

“I promised her, alright, I couldn’t just appear and ask for her hand without fucking being something.”

“You could have been fucking something for five years though, is all I’m saying.”

“Alesan, I swear to the Old Gods and the New, don’t test me. You know, I could beat you in the yard any day.”

“Aye, you’re good with an arming sword” Alesan conceded, “But useless with a long sword, my friend.”

“That we can agree on. Remember, when you pummelled me into the dirt at Harrenhal with that gigantic claymore thing of Lord Merryweather’s? That’s a beating I will never forget” Emmerich said with a mighty grin, rubbing down his left side were the edge of the blade had cut into him a bit, but mostly remembering the pain from the fuller. He still had the pattern of those grooves showing up on his skin.

“A good day” conceded Alesan proudly.

You could hear Gerold groan: “I can already feel my speech deteriorating from being around you lot again, before long I shall start swearing like a sailor from the Iron Islands.”

“Aye, _de-te-ri-o-ra-ting_ ” mocked Emmerich,“You don’t get to complain for as long as you use words with six syllables in them.”

“That’s three to many any day of the week, mate.”

“I can see why you three are such good friends” laughed Lady Harriet, her voice the practiced intonation of a highborn lady, “You have the same…I would not call it humour, but something of that effect.”

“My lady, you astound me every day.”

With that, the couple kissed and Alesan pulled Emmerich along.

“I need to find myself a right woman at one of these tourneys, this just gets worse and worse every time.”

“Get at it, then. You’re a knight now, take your pick.”

“Hmpf.”

“Come on, you’re not that ugly.”

“Well, first of all- fuck you, and second…”

Alesan stopped talking mid-sentence and though that was not the most uncommon thing to happen, it made Emmerich follow his friend’s line of sight.

“Is that a woman? Gods she’s tall…”

Emmerich pushed the man in front a little to the side, rising to his toes and he finally caught side of what his taller friend had easily spotted not thirty feet away.

Indeed, she was tall, and to Emmerich she looked womanly, too. She always had.

Lady Ostaera Tarth.

He had expected to see her and not feel anything. He had expected not meeting her ever again as well, or after she was already wed and had children. But no, she was here, standing next to her twin brother and his betrothed in front of Lord Baratheon.

The pale blonde hair was arranged intricately around her head, trailing down her broad back in lose curls.

She was taller than him by at least a few inches, older too, but he had never cared much for it, his blood pumping through his body and into his head. He felt light-headed.

Surely, this was not meant to happen? Did Gerold feel this way whenever Lady Harriet looked his way, or he spotted her silhouette in a crowd?

Emmerich’s feelings had not been this strong when they had last spoken, only a shadow of what was to come, a simple taste it seemed.

He watched, as she folded her hands together behind her back for a moment, then turned her head slightly before resuming her former position. Though she was tall, her shoulders almost as broad as his own, she was still delicate in every sense of the word.

“Stop staring” snapped Alesan, “You look like you smoked one of those mushrooms from the woods or something. It’s just a woman, no need to go all…weird over her. Hells, you’re even blushing!”

“Shut up” whisper-shouted Emmerich in his friend’s general direction, the former plan of introducing himself to Lord Baratheon forgotten as he watched the Tarths make their way to their table in the wings of the Ballroom.

Then, the general chitchat was broken by Lord Baratheon’s booming voice.

“Welcome! Welcome, all you esteemed lords and ladies, knights, maidens and squires, to the Tourney of Storm’s End. Though we have received the grave news that the Prince Jaehaerys has passed away, we shall hold this celebration in honour of him still. A few announcements, ere I let you dance and drink to your hearts’ content.”

A round of polite and loud applause filled the high ceilings.

“Firstly, I would like to congratulate the Lord Astraeon Tarth on his upcoming wedding to Lady Ramona Gower, to take place in the Sept of Storm’s End at the End of the week!”

Even louder applause, though none probably cared for the occasion and only for the food and drink that would doubtlessly flow.

“Secondly, it has been decided by my lady wife and myself, to send our eldest son and heir, Lord Robert, to the Eyrie of House Arryn after the Tourney has ended. There he will be fostered under the care of my good friend, Lord Jon Arryn, alongside Lord Eddard Stark. Let us hope, he will experience the greatness of the Vale and be shaped by it into the Lord the Stormlands deserve!”

Mindlessly, Emmerich joined the clapping, still trying to catch sight of Lady Ostaera again but she was hidden from view by the imposing figures of her brothers.

The music began with a merry tune, common throughout all kingdoms, and most people found themselves partnered quickly.

She was under those people too, talking politely and with a smile on her lips to a lord with brown hair and grey doublet. He said something and she laughed.

“Looks like I was a bit too optimistic” Emmerich said as calmly as he could, “She seems already engaged.”

“Well” interrupted a female voice, making the two knights turn around.

She was a small thing, with a round face and many a curve clothed in dark green cotton, simple but well made all the same.

“Well, what?” asked Alesan, challenging the girl with his gaze.

“Well” she began again, not put out by the teasing, “I have an idea how to get you dancing with your lady.”

“What do you know?” Emmerich asked sceptically. It was a clever ploy to get his attention, he must admit, but he was no fool.

“Her name is Lady Ostaera and she is the youngest daughter of House Tarth, yet to be wed, and currently engaged in a dance with Lord Mertyns. The two have never met before, the dance has been arranged by Lord Linnaeus, and the Lady is waiting for a certain knight to reveal himself lest she suffer more.”

“Suffer?” echoed Emmerich, speechless once more.

“Indeed, Ser. For this young squire promised to seek her out once he had been knighted, promising too, to make her his Queen of Love and Beauty for the rest of his life. What has become of him, I wonder?”

“Fuck.”

“ _That_ will decidedly not do. Now, do you wanna dance with her, or not?”

The change in tone, her voice deepening to a commoner’s brogue in a manner of seconds, surprised Emmerich.

“Of course!” he exclaimed hastily while the girl watched him intently, Alesan giggling beside them.

“Then” and the maid rose to her full height which was not very intimidating, yet the stare in her eyes well made up for it, “stop being a pansy, and dance with me. I am her handmaiden, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I am here stop both of you from avoiding each other.”

“Finally, someone after my own heart. What is your name, my sweet?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, a clearly practiced move that Emmerich had not mastered.

“Ser, you are none of my concern and I am not inclined to give you my name. Also, I am not your sweet and if you call me that again, I shall have your name erased from the lists. Good day.”

With that, she turned around and left. It took Emmerich a second until he followed after her, the laughter of his friend still ringing in his ears. He cast Alesan one last look while the man just shook his head at the entire scene, most likely returning to Gerold despite his complaints.

“My name his Viorel” the brunette said, grasping his hands, placing them and expertly entering them into the dance without anyone being interrupted.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady Viorel.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere here. Do you know, what you want to say to Lady Ostaera?”

Once more, Emmerich’s brain started stuttering. Right. There would be talking. He had quite forgotten about that.

In his dreams, he was always as smooth as the Dornish, with lingering kisses and entrancing words that came naturally to him.

It was quite rude, to be reminded by this girl that he was not any of those things. He had not practiced it either, assuming the whole encounter would simply flow along without issue.

“Gods are men stupid” he could hear Viorel mutter, “You do still like her?”

“Like her? I just felt my heart stop beating when I saw her, what else could that be?”

“An illness?”

“Funny. Now, what should I say to her?”

“That is quite easy, really. You made a promise, remind her of it and simply pay attention to what she says. Listen to her, not to what you want to hear. Think about her words before answering but don’t say what she wants you to say. You feel something for her? Then make her feel that, too.”

“You are quite wise for your age.”

“I’ve been growing up around Lady Daerya, of course I pick some shit up” she rolled her eyes at him, and the two burst into laughter while turning about the room.

“Can I help you in return, somehow? You are quite nice and helpful, too.”

“You’re taking your vows seriously, then. If you know a good man, who’s not an idiot like that other one back there, you could maybe introduce us. A girl like me needs a future.”

The first dance was coming to an end, and unsurprisingly Viorel had manoeuvred them about so that he just had to step forward to claim Lady Ostaera’s hand. A smart maid, a skilled dancer and a great friend all in one. They really did raise them differently on Tarth.

“It has been a pleasure, my lady” Emmerich could hear Lord Mertyns say, his voice deep and rumbling.

“My lord, I hope to meet you again before the Tourney is over.”

With one last bow, Lord Mertyns walked away and Emmerich swallowed. Lady Ostaera’s blue eyes, the famous shade of sapphires, traced over the hall and she was about to leave, too, when Emmerich finally made his legs move in her direction.

His heart was beating nervously somewhere in his neck and stomach, no words coming to mind.

“My Lady” he said, bowing with a (to him obviously faked) practiced air, “May I have the honour of the next dance?”

He extended his hand while raising his head, awaiting her reaction with bated breath. Maybe, he forgot how to breathe at all. Was his vision blacking out? He hoped not, that would not do right now.

To keep himself from panicking, Emmerich focused on the lady of his affection more intently, frantically hoping she would not simply run from him.

Her blue eyes were widened, clearly surprised that he was here. A small blush wound its way up her neck and into her cheeks, her mouth opening without saying anything. Her hand, half stretched out towards him, hovered awkwardly in the space between them.

Time must have stopped, for Emmerich could not say for how long the two had simply stared at one another.

Then, her big but slim hand closed around his and all the noise Emmerich had somehow ignored came back in full force. He felt himself smile involuntarily, finding the correct position for the next dance and simply…swept her away. He found dancing with her to be as easy and enjoyable as he remembered, her steps light and her movement following him when they were together, or graceful and determined when they departed.

Their hands only traced along each other when the song called for it, the distance was upheld as well. Try as he might, Emmerich could not simply bring her close to him with so many people watching them. He was painfully aware of at least Viorel’s gaze on his back, most likely annoyed at his incompetence.

The music played, and the couple was silent for a good few moments before Lady Ostaera seemed to remember her manners. Emmerich could not care for them, he might be a knight now but they never prepared you for these situations. Give your lady the winner’s wreath, gift her roses, receive her favour but apart from that he was no better at actually talking to Lady Ostaera than the next man.

“I did not think, you would return.”

“I made a promise to you, my lady, and I am not one to break my vows.”

He had said something without stumbling over his words; that had to be a good sign.

“You are knighted, then?”

“Aye, I have been only back south for a moon’s turn and this is the first Tourney I have attended since.”

She hummed, letting herself be turned and twirled around. Last time, he had not been strong enough to lift her when the song called for it. Hopefully, they could either avoid it completely or he had become strong enough. He was no boy anymore, although Ser Oskar liked to still call him one, ignoring that he had gifted him a sword on his six-and-tenth name day a few moon turns ago.

“And before? You must have seen a great many sights since we last met.”

“Indeed, I have, my lady. The land holds a great many beautiful things and we shall travel there together, should you wish to.”

That made her smile broadly, lighting her face up and making her eyes shine like stars. He must have said the right thing, he was lucky tonight.

“You have gotten better with your words, Ser” she said then, the tension leaving them all at once, “I do remember you stumbling over every sentence.”

“Were you to ask your handmaiden, Viorel, she would contradict you. I suspect that I may have simply gotten better at thinking under pressure” Emmerich admitted, unable to lie to her. It would not do to create a false image of him in her head. She deserved an honest man.

“It makes sense. In a fight, stumbling means you die.”

“Have you taken to the sword, too, my lady?”

She laughed once more, and the sound made his heart swell again.

“No, Ser, I have not the interests of other ladies though I greatly admire them. My preferred sparring ground lies elsewhere, in books and sewing.”

“Sewing, that does not sound like I remember you. I think you mentioned how every needle was too small for your fingers, the work always rather…clumsy.”

“The first still holds true, but I have been practicing. My lady mother is a very intent person, she could convince the King to turn the Iron Throne to ash if she wished to.”

“Did you make this dress, then? Because, it is marvellous work.”

It was indeed, unlike anything he had seen in the Crownlands, Riverlands or the Vale. It seemed to be very Tarth.

“I shall thank you when you tell me what kind of expertise you have, so I might mitigate the compliment accordingly” the expression in her eyes was guarded, apparently awaiting mockery for it. For a moment her gaze strayed above his head, finding something and then returning to his own eyes, another look he could not name now amongst the steel.

Emmerich smiled kindly (he hoped): “A squire knows a great deal about needles, there are no ladies and maids to repair one’s garments. I might not be able to embroider a single snowflake, but I could stitch a torn bodice back together.”

She blushed, and Emmerich realized too late how his words might sound.

“I apologize, my lady. It was not meant to sound so lustful” he added quickly, wanting to slap himself like Ser Oskar was fond of. In trying to make her laugh, he had made it worse.

She lifted her gaze from their joined hands, the blush having made its way up to her temple and possibly into her hair as well.

“I take no offence, Ser. If you did not mean those words in mocking, that is.”

“I would never mock you, for I have no reason to.”

“You flatter me, but even you must know that I am not the lady you could have.”

Well, that would not do. But how should he convince her of his feelings? Ser Oskar would have a good answer to offer, yet Emmerich tried thinking of his advice anyway.

“Mayhaps, but I do not care. You are the lady I want to have, and that is the only thing that matters to me. If you wished me gone, I would leave you and never make myself known to you again.”

There, that sounded good.

“That…I cannot decide that here, not now” she said slowly, composing herself while never taking her eyes off his, “At the end of the Tourney I will have an answer for you, and I shall be truthful and honest. For even if I were to decide against you, I shall make it clear so that you are truly free to find a woman worthy of your admiration.”

“What are we to do until then?” he asked, wondering whether she would simply leave him now and return to say no these few days later.

She smiled once more, calming his frayed nerves: “I fully intend to enjoy myself, dancing, talking and watching the knights fight for their honour.”

“A perfectly sound plan, my lady. Whom do you expect to win the melee then?”

The topic was safe, could lead them from the more sensitive aspects easily.

“It shall be my brother, Lord Selwyn, he is the best fighter amongst my siblings and thus the best in the Seven Kingdoms.”

They made another turn around the hall, uncaring that the song had long since stopped and been exchanged for a second one, only noticing when they had to change their steps.

Emmerich felt glad that Lady Ostaera was so proud of her family. He had heard in his travels that the famous hedge knight and Kingsguard Ser Duncan the Tall himself was her grandfather. After having been told that on accident somewhere in the Crownlands, Emmerich had felt even more unsure of his endeavours, but now every doubt seemed unimportant.

“The joust, my lady?”

“Were the Kingsguard here, I would name Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Gerold Hightower but now I am quite unsure. A Martell, most likely- their sand steeds would carry them through a storm, a joust should not pose a problem.”

He laughed: “You mock me. If you are so certain, will you deny me the honour of carrying your favour?”

She smiled.

“I could never deny a knight my favour when he has presented himself thusly.”

Emmerich could feel the heat climb once more. This woman would be the end of him, and they had scarcely spend any time together at all. Lady Ostaera laughed again, an unpractised sound without any of a lady’s grace and all the strength of a storm. It was truly delightful and he could feel his own laughter escaping him. Why he would hold it back, he did not know. A foolish notion.

But then again, Emmerich could easily admit to being a fool, especially when faced with Lady Ostaera of Tarth.

“You do look endearing when you blush, Ser Emmerich, it goes well with your eyes.” 

“Thank you, my lady. Remember the sight for it shall not happen again soon.”

“You do not like being complemented?” the teasing tone was unmistakable.

“Oh, on the contrary, a compliment is what I thrive on. They usually do not break my resolve as easily, however.”

“Sparing is different from the usual social conduct, you should remember that. For one, we usually do not hit one another with a blade after speaking.”

“Were that the case,” Emmerich found himself saying, “most conversations would end sooner, and words would be chosen more carefully.”

“Are you not fond of talking, Ser?”

“I am, I simply find it arduous in certain company. Ser Oskar would likely have me polish his armour for the fortnight if he heard me admit this to you…” he trailed of, not knowing how to end that sentence.

“Ser Oskar?”

“Aye, he was the knight that took me on after we last met. He is of House Merryweather.”

“They are not of the Stormlands, they do not sound familiar.”

He smiled, impressed. Then Emmerich remembered that highborns were usually educated in such things, as Ser Oskar was too.

“They hail from the Reach, but he attended the last Great Tourney and found me after the squire’s melee.”

“Which you won quite soundly, if I recall correctly.”

“I did, my lady, though Ser Oskar proceeded to criticize every swing and stance before asking me to squire for him.”

“Is he here to watch you fight?”

“Indeed, he has been talking about the importance of this Tourney for quite some time, until the message of the prince’s death came, that is. He was going on about a legendary knight or sword, mayhaps both.”

“You listened to him most closely, it seems” she teased, and he was grateful she ignored the words about the Prince with the name he could not spell. Sometimes, he forgot that her mother was a Targaryen.

“He never said these things to me, mind you, just to Ser Loras Caswell when we were nearing Storm’s End.”

“An excuse worthy of a knight like yourself.”

Were it not for her tone, he would have liked sinking into the floor. Instead, he felt another blush creep its way onto his face. The expression on her face was nothing short of delightful, a proud grin parting her painted lips, her eyes twinkling like the moon in the light of the candles above them.

Her words were suddenly forgotten, as the inappropriate wish to pull her close and kiss her presented itself in his mind. The more Emmerich tried to push it away, the more it stayed, wedged itself in between every other thing he wanted to think about.

“Are you well, Ser? I have not mocked you?”

“No, my lady, the contrary” he said, looking at her face again, “You are right to call me out, I was merely pondering other aspects of me you might find lacking.”

“That will be for me to decide, Ser Emmerich, so do not worry about them for now.”

Somehow, the thought did not scare him as it ought to, as it might have at the beginning of the evening. Now, something in her voice calmed him down. He had not really noticed his underlying panic, the tension between them, fading, but it had.

Simply delighted with the turn of events, feeling muscles and sinews in his neck loosen, he led Lady Ostaera in the next dance without neither of them questioning it. As if they had both decided to simply continue on for as long as the Gods would allow them to.

“I care for your opinion, dearly, so I merely hope you shall be satisfied in your findings.”

“You have not disappointed me yet.”

He could not _not_ stare at her, the calm music floating about them, so very much like the first time they danced through these high halls of long lost kings all those years ago, spinning between the other couples between the grey stone columns.

She looked at him, too, never wavering in her gaze even when the dance parted them. Nothing, it seemed, would be able to disturb them tonight.

The people always said that magic had left the world, but to Emmerich they were wrong _. This_ felt like magic, and he would be a fool for magic till end of time itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter. I look forward to hearing about your opinions on this, for it was quite difficult to write.
> 
> A few of my own questions for you, if you feel so inclined:
> 
> First of all, Emmerich Hasty himself. For now, we only know him partly but **what is your first impression of him?**
> 
> Then, we have his friends- Ser Alesan Thorne and Ser Gerold Hardyng , **was their characterization well done or were you expecting something different?** Also, their dynamic somehow managed to come naturally to me, but I hope it isn't too reminiscent of others we have seen before.
> 
> **Was the change in writing crass enough, between the more noble POVs of Rhaegar and Ostaera or should there have been more of an extreme?** I'm still feeling it out, testing the waters so to speak, but criticism is most welcome (and needed).
> 
> Emmerich's reaction in regards to Ostaera may seem a bit over-the-top, **but I hope you're not too put out? What do you expect of their relationship in the coming chapters?** In regards to ages, Ostaera is around 18, Emmerich around 16ish and Rhaegar (of course) 15.
> 
> Then we have Viorel coming in to save the evening and play match-maker. **Too forced and cheesy or well balanced?  
>  The same question goes for Ostaera's and Emmerich's dance-scene, as well. ** Did you catch the 'Jenny of Oldstones' reference?
> 
> Next chapter, I will introduce (spoiler) Elia Martell herself as POV, and I'm very excited about that.
> 
> With that, however, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	5. Elia I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Destiny and fate were not kind mistresses, instead fickle and capricious, making a mockery of the best of women and the most noble of men every time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,  
> A huge thank you to everyone who left Kudos, you are amazing, as well as **Yeet** and **RedAquilla** (again!) for commenting!  
> This next chapter was very interesting to write, since we are seeing our first tourney and writing sword fighting is marginally more difficult than writing a Quidditch match, as I have discovered.  
> Also, Elia is an intriguing character since we don't really know her but I hope you like this introduction to her.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter!

#  **Elia I**

Wrapping herself in the exquisite chintz cloak, Princess Elia Nymeros Martell tried to hide from the cold gusts of wind that were blowing over the tourney grounds of Storm’s End.

How the Baratheons and other Stormlanders could stand this weather, the Dornish woman did not know. She was wearing her thickest gown, several layers of silk, satin and even a felt padded bodice and none were enough to protect her.

Sitting next to her, waiting for the next melee to be announced, was Lady Ashara Dayne in a resplendent purple velvet gown and furs. She looked almost northern, were you far enough away to not see her eyes.

“I hope, Arthur at least wins this bout or I shall be very cross with him” the young Dayne muttered, “I did not get up at the break of dawn to help him put his armour on and fix his cloak for this.”

“As you have said multiple times now” yawned Doran, Elia’s brother and heir to Sunspear from his cushioned seat next to them, before Lady Ashara heartily slapped him across the shoulder. The young girl had never quite gotten along with Doran ever since she arrived at the Martell Seat six-moon turns ago, but now they had at least progressed towards sibling-like teasing. Mostly, at least.

“You are insufferable” Lady Ashara added, before disappearing in her furs again, now wrapping them around Elia as well. The two huddled closer together, as finally the fighters entered the grounds before them, to the cheering of the entirety of the grand stands, the empty royal box and the smallfolk across from the lords reaching into the clouded sky above.

Amongst them was not only Ser Arthur Dayne, presenting for the first time as the famed Sword of the Morning, but also Elia’s younger brother Oberyn Martell. Though she doubted the people of Westeros had yet to learn of his moniker ‘The Red Viper’, she suspected they would before long. They also underestimate Arthur- that Elia was certain of. Everyone but her always had.

The other knights were of no interest to her, though she let her eyes sweep over them in observation nonetheless. Some were wearing light armour, or a simple chainmail beneath a tabard and only a few were decked out in a complete set of heavy steel. There was a lot of clanking, still, as swords were presented to Lord Baratheon as an official greeting before the melee would begin. Every fighter was also carrying a favour or two, and the Dornish girls had chosen their brothers though not for want of admirers. Even the Lady Ashara, merely four-and-ten, had to sneakily avoid a number of squires and knights since they had arrived. Now, however, the two were lost in the chaos of a tourney, no one paying them any attention. Elia loved it.

There were shouts of admiration when Arthur pulled the greatsword out from his scabbard, the pale blade reflecting the grey light magnificently. Elia who had seen the blade and even held it for a mere moment, could not help but gasp at the sight. She remembered vividly how light it was for its remarkable size, and twice as sharp as regular steel, piercing through the mockups in the training yard like butter. It shimmered, freshly polished no doubt, but it never lost its shine anyway, seemingly unmarked by the trials of The Sword of the Morning.

His purple cloak billowed out behind Arthur and he went into the fight without second thought, though most other knights seemed too shocked to react. Elia smiled, thinking about each and every man on that field dismissing the rumours and legends of House Dayne just to be presented with the truth during a simple tourney. Such was Arthur’s nature however, a true knight, no boastful presentations but only raw skill.

The clinks of metal echoed over them, the increased screaming roared of the crowds like the Narrow Sea itself, and Elia watched with bated breath as her brother spun around with his spear in hand, twirling it every now and then, clearly showing of. He was like a flash of sunlight, breaking through the ranks easily. Most Westerosi men apparently had never faced off against a spear before, or at least not when it was wielded by someone like Oberyn. To him, fighting, dancing and fucking were all merely distinguished by the amount of blood that was spilled during the activity. He twirled around his enemies, facing off against four at this very moment, and she knew the grin across his face, the expression of sheer happiness in his dark eyes. Every strike of the spear rang true, knocking blades around almost effortlessly, making the heavier knights lose their balance and knocking the lighter ones to the ground. When two knights tried to take him at the same time from opposite sides, Oberyn was in his true element, the one at his front was clad in steel but was not keeping his shield up anymore, having been hit multiple times by now. Elia had known what her brother was up to from the moment he targeted the man’s shoulder and elbow vehemently, though it always seemed as if he was missing the throat to another onlooker.

Oberyn ignored the man behind him, once more focussed on the heavy man, taking up an almost taunting stance and his opponent took the bait, obviously furious that this Dornishman was able to outplay him. He charged, sword raised, hoping to overpower her brother, lowering his shield and Oberyn took the opening, pirouetting out of his way and slamming the back end of his spear against the man’s helmet. Elia cringed slightly at the remembrance of the feeling, having learned the hard way that Oberyn liked going for the head. The heavy man, wearing some Vale sigil or other, almost sank to the ground and the lighter man sought his opening but underestimated the Vale Knight. It was a brief fight, the Crownlander defeated and the Vale knight once more facing off against Oberyn.

On the other side of the denominated square, Arthur was also facing off against a man in heavy plating, the Coat of Arms of Tarth billowing around them. Mayhaps the Evenstar himself? Arthur’s style was completely different to Oberyn’s, less flourishing and more practical. There was never any unnecessary movement, only the build-up to another punishing blow. Elia loved watching Arthur fight, because he put every ounce of passion and confidence she knew he had in his strikes. There was nothing mechanical behind it, not anymore, and it was a sight to behold. She watched him take an empty fade, building up momentum with Dawn at the same time which forced his opponent to take the wrong step, his own sword at window guard and unable to anticipate Arthur’s almost signature move. He had practiced it against Oberyn many a time, so Elia knew the signs when she saw it.

The last rotation of Dawn brought it into half iron gate guard at his left leg, his left hand now taking the lead as though it were second nature to Arthur, never once losing his perfected grip. Without interrupting his momentum, Arthur stepped across, bringing Dawn into rear guard while slashing across the Tarth man’s right arm, forcing him to almost let go of his own sword, making it swing out of balance. The tip of the greatsword in Arthur’s hand was now pointing behind his back, as though he was already anticipating his next opponent.

Ashara let out an impressed sigh, this being the first time she had watched her brother fight in nigh on five years, and Elia smirked to herself. She remembered how the motions had sent Oberyn straight into the dirt the first thirty times, how she was for once better at swordplay than he was. It had been a good day, especially when Oberyn stopped sulking and asked her about her “devious secret”.

Holding onto his now bleeding arm, the Tarth knight signalled his defeat and left the ring to the roaring applause from the family seated next to Lord Baratheon. He took off his helmet, shaking his head while laughing wildly until he greeted another knight in purple, the two talking like they were best friends. Elia had noticed the other, smaller purple knight, his technique a little more polished than others’ and his swiftness a great benefit, and she thought he might do well against Oberyn and Arthur, until the Tarth knight had taken him on earlier.

Now, only Oberyn and Arthur were left standing and her brother, in his usual arrogance, took of the helmet he had worn, throwing it carelessly into the sand. Not missing a beat, Arthur followed suit, revealing to the gasping ladies (and there were a great deal of them) his head of pale hair sticking out at odd angles for a moment, until he went through it with his hand. He did look quite magnificent, like he had just stepped out from a song, Ser Duncan the Tall come again.

“I had hoped this tourney might prove interesting” said Doran, leaning back in his chair before signalling to his servants to take him inside, “I shall rest before the great meal, this cold is making it worse.”

He grimaced for the merest second, and had she not known him so well, Elia would have missed it entirely. She raised an eyebrow at her brother, a look he ignored completely, and Elia let it go. Later, when the castle had gone to rest, she would seek him out and inform him of his stupidity. Loudly.

Lady Ashara shook her head: “He is getting grumpier by the day.”

“He is worried, Lady Ashara” amended Elia softly, her anger at Doran would not be known to anyone outside the family, “His leg is not getting better like the Maester promised, and he is keeping secrets- moreso than usual.”

Elia let the sentence end, well aware how Lady Ashara was focussing intently on her, intrigued and curious.

She had now stopped paying attention to the fight between the two men she admired and cherished, even loved, most in this world. After near a thousand times, even the most accomplished fighters’ duel could seem boring to an onlooker. Elia had heard and cried the taunts, the insults, knew the weaknesses and strengths of both of them and the outcome did not matter. She was also aware, that even Oberyn knew the outcome for he was not nearly as good as Arthur. 

Arthur changed his handiness again, but before Oberyn could move to spin and deflect with the spear, Arthur advanced, once more changing his positioning and breaking through Oberyn’s practiced movement, making him almost stumble over his feet. Dawn, however, found its path and came to rest against Oberyn’s jugular, the pommel held straight against Arthur’s own.

Oberyn laughed, stepping back and bowing before his friend.

Finally daring to venture out of the furs, Elia rose with Lady Ashara to her feet and applauded their brothers lightly while the younger Dayne almost shouted, brimming over with joy at her brother’s victory.

Arthur, now picking up his helmet once more, holding it beneath his left arm, went to stand in front of the Lord’s Box. Lord Baratheon came to stand at the front.

“Well fought, Ser Arthur, the title of Sword of the Morning has not been bestowed in vain to you. It is an honour to have watched you fight today, and the Realm looks forward to your acts of greatness in the coming decades.”

The shouts of “ARTHUR!” and “SER ARTHUR!” or “DAYNE” were getting louder once more, as soon as the Lord of Storm’s End was seated again. Arthur received the Champion’s Favour, the counterpart to the crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty for the joust. Instead of offering it from atop his horse, the champion of the melee now had to make his way on foot until he came to stand in front of them.

Lady Ashara was already beaming at him, and Elia’s heart sank.

Bowing once, Arthur raised his voice so at least the two women could hear him. It reminded Elia of how ridiculous this entire affair was. No one could hear it, most could also not see it and what really was the point?

Were Lady Ashara not here, Elia knew, she would not mind the ceremony so much but she wanted nothing more than to disappear.

“My lady” Arthur began sombrely, entirely opposed to his usual way of speaking, “Allow me to crown you, Princess Elia of Nymeros Martell with this Champion’s Favour.”

“Of course” muttered Lady Ashara, almost pouting before she resolutely pushed Elia closer to the front of the box. Lady Ashara did collect her compose quickly, Elia thought as she looked down at Arthur, sweat plastered hair, bright purple eyes staring up at her as though they were alone in this world.

Thankfully, Areo Hotah handily provided his longaxe so that Arthur did not have to offer the wreath personally. Knowing him, Elia mused, he might have tried throwing it atop her head.

Lady Ashara placed the crown of white anemone and yellow Chrysanthemum with the needed decorum, though she rolled her eyes still, and Elia decidedly tried not to blush. One would think, she would have come to resist the charms of this man, but instead the opposite was in fact true.

Not able to say a word, Elia simply nodded and tried to smile at Arthur who only waited a mere second before walking to the exit, Dawn resting across his shoulders.

“The man is going to get himself killed by Doran” Lady Ashara exclaimed on their way out of the arena, “Everytime your brother tries to tell him, he simply continues on.”

“Let him be, Lady Ashara. It is merely the folly of a young man” Elia tried to calm her down, resetting the wreath, “There are plenty of noble women who will get his attention, now that he is Sword of the Morning.”

Telling this young girl was out of the question, they had made that decision before Lady Ashara ever set foot in Sunspear.

“He does deserve the most beautiful girl, but I shall cut everyone up who dare break his heart” the Dayne exclaimed, passionately, and Elia did not doubt her. She would do the same were it not for the fact that Oberyn liked this particular danger and Doran was too cool-headed to be endangered in the first place.

There was, however, no way for Elia to protect herself or Arthur. They had made their choice, had decided and now they were to make another one. Destiny and fate were not kind mistresses, instead fickle and capricious, making a mockery of the best of women and the most noble of men every time. Mayhaps, the Gods did exist solely to watch the play humanity was enacting on the stage of Westeros, laughing at their folly and idiocy. Weeping for their happiness and sadness. Mayhaps they even wished humanity to love, to be allowed love however impossible it was. But Elia nevertheless knew what her choice was, as Princess to Sunspear and Dorne. Her duty. Always duty, simple and easy and terrible.

Politics were a necessary evil when growing up under the keen mind of Princess Hemera Nymeros Martell, a woman up to par with Lord Lannister though mostly ignored. A woman and Dornish, a reprehensible combination would you ask the Realms of men.

Something her mother had told her before they left, floated around Elia’s head, though she had not said a word to anyone, even Arthur or Oberyn. 

_A coat of black, a coat of red, a dragon still has claws_

These words, in Elia’s humble opinion, did not make an ounce of sense. Nothing, no riches, no glory, nothing would be enough the make Princess Martell betray her dear friend, the Queen Rhaella. King Aerys, mayhaps, but not the Queen.

Would she be complicit in treason? It seemed so unlike Princess Hemera.

The War of the Fivepenny Kings was over, the Blackfyre rebellion had been squashed.

Once more, Elia could not shake the feeling that her mother was moving her and her family around like pieces in a game of cyvasse. Though, it was not an ordinary game for sure, as it seemed to be played on multiple levels and different sets each time. It left her with uncertainty, this unwillingness of her own brother to share his insight.

There was, however, another brother who shared his views of the world even when Elia did not want to hear them, at all. Oberyn, slightly sweaty and already ridding himself of the leather armour while approaching, caught up to them. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, the Lady Ashara now leaving for her brother’s tent in the company of her personal guard.

“An excellent fight” the Martell drawled proudly, “I had really hoped some of those Westerosi knights would be able to take on Arthur a little better, but alas…”

“You were defeated, dear brother, no knight could have rescued you from that” Elia teased, letting her arm be linked with his, not caring about the smell and dirt he had accumulated.

“Mayhaps I would like to be the damsel, for once.”

“I doubt, they would be open to any of your advances.”

He mumbled something into his none-existing beard. She distinctly heard the words Essos, and another sinking feeling settled into her stomach. Elia knew her brothers, and Oberyn especially. Ever since her betrothals had fallen through and he had compromised himself, Oberyn had spoken of Essos, of the Golden Company and Dothraki hordes.

He wanted to leave, not her or Dorne, but his life in general, and Elia feared what it might mean.

“You should go” she said then, addressing the issue for the first time. Ignoring it was going to break her heart more so than Oberyn travelling into danger in and of itself.

“Elia, I will not go.”

“But you wish to, dear brother. I know you, I know your heart- go, travel the world and leave this gods-forsaken continent behind.”

His eyes, usually glimmering mischievously, were sad. It reminded her of the look her father would offer her when she was younger, confined to her bed for months without any signs of improvement. There was nary a thing, Elia disliked more than that distinct expression.

“You will be unhappy all your life, if you do not take this merchant up on his offer” Elia continued, her eyes now turned towards the tents, “And regret should not be your greatest feeling, if it could be so much more.”

“But you would be alone.”

“Mayhaps, but I now have Lady Ashara to keep me entertained and I demand you return to me with as many treasures and tales of adventures as you can muster.”

They entered his tent, where he had been preparing for the melee this morning and would be preparing for the joust on the morrow.

“You could come with me” Oberyn said, a hopefulness to his voice that Elia hated and loved in equal measures.

How she longed to say yes, to simply disappear into the nothingness of Essos without another word, leaving nothing behind other than her torn dress and cut-off hair.

There was so much that she longed to see in this world, not the draughty grey keeps of Westeros but instead the wonders of Oldtown, to sail beneath the Titan of Braavos, to observe the crafts and skills in Myr. For a second, Elia indulged in the dreams she had shared with Oberyn, their fantasies and schemes from so long ago, where they would sneak into the Citadel and reach the highest tower and the deepest dungeon, just so they could claim they did. She could almost smell the ancient scrolls, the priceless leather-bound books and tomes, hidden away in the smallest nooks, long forgotten by even the maesters themselves. She could almost feel the knowledge under her fingertips, waiting to be read and explored, cherished instead of forgotten.

They would steal the most ancient of tomes and scrolls, leaving nothing behind but a thank-you note, and would then read it, bring it back and leave another note. They would be haled across all Westeros as the thieves that broke into the Citadel twice. Oh, how wondrous it would be, how much fun. That, however, would always be a dream as it had been for a decade now. It was not her duty.

“I could not, you know that” Elia said, resolutely setting her jaw, “I have another purpose and it is not to gallivant around the countries with you.”

She knew, she was not fooling her dearest brother- that he could read her like a children’s book about Princess Nymeria. For a moment, they could at least pretend.

He took her hand, gripping it firmly: “I will bring you a piece of every city I visit, that I shall promise, and I _will_ make mother see reason.”

Elia simply looked up at this brother of hers, this young man whom had shared her every dream from the moment he knew what a dream could be. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes, and were they anywhere else other than Oberyn’s own tent, Elia would not have given in.

But here, easily wrapped up in his tight embrace, everything beyond the orange canvas faded away into nothingness. Nothing mattered but them, two Martells against the Seven Kingdoms, the entire Realms of Men, if need be.

“They will pay, one day, I will return and make all of them pay” whispered Oberyn with grim determination.

Elia loosened her grip on his shirt to meet his gaze.

“They shall pay much sooner- that you can be certain of.”

He looked at her with pride in his eyes, then. The warmth in his dark, deep eyes was unmistakeable and Elia held that expression close to her heart.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, a gesture he had adopted ever since he was tall enough to do so. Mayhaps it would be enough, Elia thought, this bond between them and she could be swayed by him to follow him into the depths of the unknown.

But it was not. Not, when there was so much she would miss from her current life, too.

The siblings left the tent not much later, having finished the preparations for the next set of dishes and dances.

The hall of Storm’s End, so very different from Sunspear or the Water Gardens, much greyer, was once more filled with the Lords and Ladies of the Great Houses.

Quickly, Lady Ashara’s voice and the group of people around Ser Arthur quite recoginzable, the Martells found their way to the tables that had been prepared for them. The entire delegation from Dorne had been placed under the banner of the ruling family, the table cloth was also matching the colour of their sigil which Elia found to be most assertive of Lady Baratheon.

“Prince Oberyn” Ser Arthur greeted, a blush grazing his cheeks which made Elia smile, while he tried to extricate himself from the attentions of a few ladies in attendance.

He bowed before them, but as he raised his head, their eyes met and Elia did not dare look away.

Why did he have to be this singular of a man?

She tried, quite desperately, to find a fault with him. Was his smile too lopsided? Were his teeth not even enough? Was he not mayhaps too proud of his skill?

Yet, none of her thoughts mattered, or even appeared, when she was faced with Arthur himself.

Elia smiled brightly at this knight that had put the Crown atop her head a few hours ago, his answering smile confirmation enough.

“Princess Elia, I hope the crown is to your satisfaction?”

“Very much so, Ser Arthus, it is the most beautiful yet.”

It was, indeed.

His hand, having come up to receive hers, almost distracted her enough from the embroidered silk ribbon she had gifted him, now wrapped around his wrist.

Not breaking eye contact, Elia dared to stretch her fingers ever so slightly, touching the rich fabric, feeling it under the very tips of her fingers.

With her fingers she painted the smallest of suns unto his darkened skin, right next to where she could feel his heart beat beneath them.

“A dance, princess?” he asked, more a whisper than anything else, and she merely nodded in response.

Elia let her eyes wander around for the merest moment, noting that Doran had not yet arrived and Oberyn was entirely too caught up in flirting with another knight. Lady Ashara was across the hall, engrossed in a conversation with some lady or other.

Thus, Elia fixed her gaze once more on Arthur, whose thumb was circling over her knuckles almost absentmindedly. She knew the motion to be deliberate, for he kept looking at her as if he thought she was going to declare he stop.

They took up their positions in between a great many other couples, and though she was the only one who wore a winner’s wreath tonight, no one payed them any attention. For once, being Dornish had his advances.

Elia, now looking away from Arthur, let her hands find their position, caressing his forearms though you could not be certain whether she meant it to be more or nothing at all.

They danced, moving closer together and then stepping apart once more, and each time, the dance demanded they pass each other, Elia let her fingertips brush across his back, his shoulders.

“My princess, you are playing a most dangerous game” Arthur muttered, the end of the set nearing, their time together drawing to a close- for now, at least.

“It has never been a game to me, and much less tonight” she answered, turning her back to him in time to the merry beat of the song, feeling his hands come to rest against her elbows for a mere moment.

“Elia” Arthur said, “We…we had decided.”

She dared not answer, letting herself be led through the next few steps with other dancers before they reunited once more.

“I know, but can we not indulge ourselves for this last night?”

There it was, she recognized the look in his eyes, knowing it too well. Arthur agreed with her, despite both of them knowing that Storm’s End, a Tourney with his lady sister in attendance, was far from the unsworn secrecy of any Martell household.

“Do you wish to stop?” Elia said, more a hiss akin to the snakes that wound their way through the sands of her homeland. She would not want it to seem unkind, but this she could not be lenient in. They had decided, indeed, but the day had not yet ended. They had time.

He looked quite shocked, but only for a moment, since his expression turned sad.

Silence.

It was all silence, the dance ending with Elia feeling colder than she had even during the days on the open sea. Was all she loved cursed to slip out from her grasp, escaping easier the second she tried to hold it closer?

Arthur turned from her, easily wending his way through the other couples applauding the band, but Elia only stood still for the merest moment. She watched his purple cloak billow out behind him, he must know she was following him. They were sticking together as though connected by an invisible thread, wound from gold and silver.

Neither knew their way around Storm’s End, ignoring the sets of guards standing in the corridors, and they simply walked, and walked, and walked.

A storm was raging outside the walls, and Arthur was mayhaps trying to find a sense in the bright blue flashes of lightning between the clouds when he stared at them through the window pane.

Elia, her heart nervously pounding in her ribcage, slowly let her hand come to rest against his shoulder, feeling him shake slightly. It was reassuring how neither of them was as strong as they would have liked to believe, but Elia had known from the moment of their first kiss that Arthur would remain her biggest weakness.

“Do you remember when you first met me?” she asked carefully, “You thought me Oberyn.”

She could almost see him smile.

“You were the dirtiest princess I shall ever lay my eyes on.”

Elia came to stand next to Arthur, easily resting against him, his arm encircling her waist without hesitation. 

“Gods, I wish this was a different world” Elia sighed, closing her eyes, “I know we are not to be, that we were doomed from the start…”

His head turned slightly, pulling her in closer, and she wrapped her own arms around him.

“Would you do anything differently?” he asked her, almost fearfully.

“No” she answered, not needing to think about it for a moment, “A broken heart is better than not having known you like I do.”

He laughed quietly, she felt her own bubbling up inside her.

“I think the same” Arthur admitted, “Somehow, when I got to know you- when I began loving you- I knew it would not last and I did not care.”

Silence once more engulfed them, yet it was a different sort than before. Kinder, softer.

Standing here, it was easy to wonder about what would happen, should she choose differently.

She could do it, she could run away with Oberyn into great adventure, run away with Arthur into love itself- and she would be happy. But mayhaps, she was a fool, too fearful and too craven, to seize the good the world offered her.

Elia pulled out of the simple embrace, the last she could share with this young man she had given her heart to, the first she had ever loved, and took him in as he was now.

Faint scars traced across his face, some dark bruises where he had been hit today or during his sparring, his silver gold hair tied back with a dark band she had fashioned him a few summers ago. Slowly, savouring each moment, Elia traced her hands up his chest until they came to rest in his neck, tangling with the strands of darker hair hidden there.

He looked at her, clearly knowing her intention, his purple eyes a shade Elia loved most in this world and let himself be pulled down to her.

She found his lips, soft and warm and home, trying to commit every feeling tingling across her body to memory. He deepened the kiss, his hands finding their way to her waist, spreading and pulling her closer.

The hairband came lose, Elia letting her fingers tangle in his soft hair, threading it and pulling lightly. She swallowed the groan that was now rumbling somewhere in Arthur’s throat and chest, locking it away so she could remember it another day.

Breathing heavily, the couple pulled away from each other though never far, Elia letting her forehead come to rest against his. It was torture, her heart already in pain as though they had said their goodbyes already. As if their love was dead, buried beneath their honour.

“When you returned last year” Arthur murmured, eyes closed, “And explained how the Lannisters had slighted you…I never felt the hope as intensely as on that evening.”

“I remember” Elia answered, almost giggling at the memory. It had been the sweetest gift for her return she had received, warmer than any words.

Arthur smiled: “Princess Elia, that was a most unladylike reply.”

“I should hope so. For you always treat me best when I am not a lady.”

“That was a rather cruel insult.”

Her reply was swallowed by his kiss, short and sweet as it was.

“Could we strike another deal” Elia dared to ask, “Something…something to hope for, once again? I am afraid to ask, to keep us bound together when we should stop this here and now.”

“We should have stopped the day we began” Arthur corrected, “But I cannot regret our stupidity. So, do not be afraid, love. I would have carried your favours with me until my dying day, measuring every woman to you. What is your idea, they are mostly good ones.”

She swatted him lightly, now pulling him further into an alcove and pushing a set of dark curtains around them. A guard coughed, metal clanking as they turned a corner to disappear from the corridor.

Elia snuggled against Arthur, her nose nuzzling against his neck, softly tracing her lips over the small piece of his collarbone she could reach.

“I know that my mother will not give up on marrying me to one of her friend’s child. The Lannisters may have misplayed, yet there is still a Crown Prince unmarried.”

“You do not sound quite as despaired as I should think.”

“Because I do not despair, I am a Dornish woman, Arthur” Elia said, smiling as she tried to insult herself in the ways the Westerosi did, “I have been bed-ridden for more than ten years, and the court knows it well. Lord Lannister is Hand of the King, he doubtlessly wants his daughter to be Queen.”

“You wish to use their perception of you as an advantage. No one would want a girl too weak to live married to their son, the future king no less. That is a smart idea, my Princess.”

“Well, thank you. Mother will know it, though she may have something planned, she will not tell me. It does not matter, the Lords Paramount are too keen on their pride and house words, their legacy, to find me suitable.”

“So we shall wait.”

“I will wait for you, Arthur” Elia vowed, “We may not be able to sneak around anymore, your sister would not be in favour of us playing with this kind of fire, but waiting is not so great a burden.”

“When I ride for King’s Landing, I will further spread word of your conditions- if you wish me to.”

“You are learning the game well, I would have asked it of you. The court must think me still as frail and undesirable as they have for years now. Coming from a Dornishman will be the strongest argument, the least likely to be dismissed.”

“Your mother will hate me, too.”

“Ah” the Martell Princess smiled up at her knight, “But there is another solution. We shall simply send someone with you, someone disliked in Sunspear already, someone who mother hates. This man shall be our little puppet, covering the strange rumours you spread by his mere existence in the same place at the same time.”

“Devious” Arthur kissed her with a grin, “I love it.”

“It is made easier by the fact that mother is quite enamoured with you, too. Martell women cannot resist you, it seems.”

“A princess is deserving of such attentions. Though there is a sort of attention I would like to bestow upon you, tonight, as a goodbye of sorts.”

“I shall find you, then.”

“To the dance, once more, my princess?”

“Ser” she curtsied quite gracefully, a rush of adrenalin shooting through her, a thrill of anticipation also reflecting in Arthur’s posture, the glimmering in his eyes.

Later that very evening, after the Lords and Ladies had retreated into their chambers, falling asleep quickly, a slim figure clothed in rough brown and grey clothes, long black hair stuffed and braided into a green cap, left the rooms of Princess Elia Martell, nodded to a set of Baratheon and Martell guards and rounded a corner where she entered the doors of Ser Arthur Dayne.

At the break of dawn, the very same maid passed another set of guards while entering Princess Elia’s chambers, tears almost flooding from her eyes and she slumped against the bed. Elia, the cap now removed and thrown into the dresser, laid her arms across her eyes.

It was more than tiredness, a deeper exhaustion settling into her bones- and Elia had known fatigue all her life. It was necessary, it had to be done but knowing the truth did not make saying goodbye to the best man in her life any easier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment- I really appreciate your feedback, however small. 
> 
> Here are some of my questions for you, regarding this chapter.
> 
> We get introduced to Elia and Ashara, who don't really know each other yet, which was weird to write but **how was it for you? Most Fanfics feature them as the best friends, which we'll probably hopefully get to, but what do you make of this take?**
> 
> Doran and his mother Princess Hemera are, according to Elia, up to something- and there is even an allusion to it in this chapter (a coat of black, a coat of red etc). **What do you think, they might be planning?**
> 
> As I said in my A/N in the beginning, writing a sword fight is (for the moment) far out of my comfort zone and I wanted to convey that Elia knew a lot about the technicalities of that particular craft, which might not have been a smart move on my part. **What did you think? What in particular would you improve?**
> 
> Arthur and Elia are, or rather were, a more or less official item in this Universe up until the end of the first day. It was mostly inspired by some pretty god damn adorable fanart I found, and I hope I made you feel for their bond as much as I intended. **Was it enough to garner your curiosity?**  
>  Also, I used it to show differences between Arthur/Elia and Ostaera/Emmerich somewhat.
> 
> Another aspect of Elia I attributed to her is her sense of adventure, a thirst for knowledge and mischievousness. **Is that what you expected of her?** It was somewhat subconsciously inspired, I think, by my love for Belle from Beauty and the Beast ( _I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere_ ).
> 
> There are a few quotes in regards to love that I find very poignant, especially about it ending. One of them sums up Elia's and Arthur's relationship up quite well _"I could have avoided you, but somehow I knew you were a collision worth having"_ , and I hope Elia's view on it makes her her own person.  
> Also, **what did you make of her spreading rumors about her health at court, to stop her family's grand plans?**
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu. I can't really tell you the next PoV since...well it doesn't exist yet, it was a tough week for, I think, the world. I hope you are all staying save, where ever you are.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	6. Ostaera II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She had never ventured further than Storm’s End, she had read a thousand books, yes, had lived those thousand lives of knights, and ladies and people from history- but still, she was a page left unwritten._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Welcome back,  
> A huge thank you to **lostchildofthenewworld, RedAquilla** (hello^^) , **Jima** and **aryannaoakenshield** for commenting on the last chapter. Elia seems to be a favourite of everyone and I look forward to fleshing her out with you.
> 
> This chapter was a different experience because I wrote it inbetween difficult exams, new university related issues and, as for everyone around the world, the demonstrations and protests of BlackLivesMatter in the USA.   
> I hope, you all stay safe, and help by raising your voices to help the communities that have been denied equality for centuries now. To quote Lin-Manuel Miranda:   
> _I may not live to see our glory,  
>  But I will gladly join the fight  
> And when our children tell our story  
> They'll tell the story of tonight _
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter!

#  **Ostaera II**

Ostaera clapped, standing next to her future sister-in-law while they watched her brothers joust. For the moment, Linnaeus was preparing against Astraeon and Ostaera was not as torn about whom to support as she ought to be.

Linnaeus knew, however, that Astraeon was her favourite brother and would not be cross with her. After all, he was Cordelia’s favourite and vice versa- it worked out quite nicely that way and only Selwyn was left to complain (which he did not, claiming he was everyone’s second favourite- quite true in fact).

He was complaining at this moment, though, having been injured in his fight against the now famous Arthur Dayne on the day before.

“This joust was supposed to be an interesting venture, and now look at us” the Tarth heir said to his youngest sister, bowing around the Lady Jocelyn, “We’re bound to watch our brothers face off for years to come.”

“Today shall certainly mark the moment when one will become merciless in his taunts. Thank the Gods, they are not living in the same household together” she answered, pushing her cloak back a little to enjoy the wind fully. It was a wonderfully warm day, a stark contrast to the storms that had been gripping the countryside for much of the night. Not that Ostaera had managed to get much sleep after the excitement of the melee and dance.

Ser Emmerich had not won, carrying her favour nonetheless, but alas it had not been enough against Selwyn who, as Ostaera had predicted, had beaten him soundly. Both men seemed quite amicable about it, and Selwyn had even bet money on Emmerich winning the joust. If there was any approval Ostaera had hoped for, it had been his for he could be more judgemental than all her siblings combined.

But after seeing Ser Arthur, Ostaera was quite unsure of Ser Emmerich’s chances, for this knight was different. Imposing, graceful, tall.

Yet, Ostaera caught herself not watching the handsome Dornishman but instead the stout Stormlander who also wore purple. He had grown, somewhat, from how she remembered him, his voice quite a bit deeper, a dark beard covering his square jaw and the reddish hints in it bringing out the green of his eyes.

He even had scars now, she had spotted them along his cheek and even into his hairline, on his wrist. She had felt the strong muscles when they had danced, grasping his hands had been like stepping into a different world altogether. He was nothing like the boy she had first met, now a knight and the confidence such a title commanded. But one thing had not changed, he was still a kind soul. A good man.

Ostaera had seldom felt as thoroughly confused as when she had seen him step forward during the opening feast. She had become aware of every vein, every heartbeat, as if she had stepped outside her body and then gotten rapidly shoved into it within the blink of an eye.

He had held word, his promise still unbroken. This boy had travelled to the Vale and back, had become a knight and now he was here to make good on his last words.

“I shall make you my Queen of Love and Beauty for all my days, my lady.”

Emmerich Hasty had been the first person outside of her household to not mock her, who never called her Astraeon or snickered about every step she took. She remembered fine ladies calling her “not quite living up to expectation”, her face “too handsome to be a lady’s”.

No one ever asked for her favour, asked for her hand in a dance and then there had been Emmerich, not only requesting her hand for a set but also stumbling over his words while calling her beautiful. She knew the expression in his eyes to be honesty, to be real, and she had felt her heart tumble.

It had been a feeling she had locked away, always mindful of every other time she had been burnt by reality. No one fell in love with her, not for herself, at least. They wanted the claim of being related to a Targaryen, to advance in the court of King Aerys II, to be a part of the legacy of Ser Duncan the Tall.

As her brothers raced into each other, the hoofs of their steeds leaving well-paced steps into the sand, Ostaera watched them unseeing, while remembering. She was to make a choice, but how could she make it?

He had returned, and now she owed him her honesty- but what was the truth?

Ostaera did not know.

She was afraid, _that_ she did know. She knew her parents had once been quite in love, her mother had told her as such. Was this feeling, of her heart quickening and wanting to smile while thinking about him, or seeing him, was it indeed _love_?

Was it worth it, if it were?

That first dance, that night, it had reminded Ostaera of what she had been lacking. Not a man’s attention or a supporter, but mayhaps a purpose. She had never ventured further than Storm’s End, she had read a thousand books, yes, had lived those thousand lives of knights, and ladies and people from history- but still, she was a page left unwritten.

It was frightening, to be reminded how little you truly knew, how little you experienced, and it had made her feel like a small person, too. As if she had never lived at all, not like she ought to.

She was not great at anything, truly- not sewing, like Viorel, or numbers and how the world works like Cordelia (who was more interested in nature and its quirks than her husband) or politics like her mother. Ostaera was just in existence, and the thought had unsettled her.

Was it her purpose to be a wife to a knight, a man who loved her? She could live in such a manner, it sounded wonderful, too. But, at the same time, Ostaera was left to wonder whether there was not something out there waiting for her to discover it, treasure it and tend to it like a garden. In a sense, Emmerich had calmed those thoughts he had unravelled, by merely listening to her ramble quite ineloquently about it. 

They walked through the garden of Storm’s End, joined by hundreds of other nobles. To others, to other ladies, it may have seemed like nothing much but she had loved it. He was not her brother or her father, he was not using her. He was just himself, offering an opinion when asked.

“Ouh” she heard Selwyn exclaim in mock pain and Ostaera finally focused ahead again, watching as Linnaeus cluttered against the ground, his horse prancing for a few steps ere the mare stopped compliantly. Astraeon was not too far off, either, halting and turning to help their brother to his feet.

“He promised me, to let him win” Lady Ulrike, holding her daughter’s hand, whispered conspiratorially. Lady Ramona, seated in the row above Ostaera herself, laughed as she heard and the three shared a giggle while Cordelia tried not to.

“It is reassuring to know my good-sister shall look out for me” Lady Ramona added, clasping her hand on Lady Ulrike’s shoulder for a moment, “I was quite anxious before meeting Lord Astraeon, but meeting you all has been quite the pleasure.”

“There is nothing better than good-sisters, men never get anything done without us” Lady Ulrike agreed, “They sit back and drink their wine while the women take on the daily dealings, while sewing, too!”

“I did quite love your tale of these fascinating creatures from Essos, Lady Cordelia” said Lady Ramona, “However did you learn something of that sort? My maester certainly never talked of butterflies whose colours did not mark ones finger after touching!”

“Mayhaps they are magical butterflies” Ostaera mused, “And dragons never existed, only such occurrences of beautiful butterflies were exaggerated.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes: “It is called a science, sister, all based in fact. Dragons have well existed, but they have died all the same- and the butterflies did not. The latest issue of the researcher’s book suggests, the butterflies change colour when placed in different liquids but regain their original vibrant blue when dry. He does not know how such a thing could work, but I am determined to follow his line of thinking.”

“I remember you walking through Evenfall Hall and trying to explain to me how sunbeams enter through the windows and sometimes cast rainbows without there being paint on the glass” Ostaera added with a smile of remembrance, though unable to recall her sister’s exact explanation. Cordelia even kept an oddly shaped chunk of clear myrish glass on a window sill in her personal solar, casting rainbows at every hour of the day; as well as a contraption of five metal balls, each on a chain, the first and last continuously swinging to and fro. Ostaera had waited an entire hour for the balls to stop moving, yet they had not.

Cordelia had a purpose, found it when Ostaera was three-and-ten and had retained it ever since. It seemed to entertain her, a certain look of unhinged happiness in her darker blue eyes whenever she was allowed to mention her latest discoveries over dinner. Even her marriage to Lord Dondarion, to whom she had once written an entire paragraph about the nature of lightning, had not dampened her spirit.

Ostaera did not know what she would write a paragraph about to Emmerich. Jousting? She had tried holding a sword and a lance but neither stayed there for long enough. Each of her siblings was outstanding in one manner or another, and she was outstanding by being quite ordinary. She had come to terms with that, somewhat, trying to apply herself in each venture but nothing had stayed with her and Ostaera knew that her mother in particular despaired over her lack of refinement far more than her looks.

“You are the daughter of Lord Tarth, the Evenstar, and your brothers are friends with the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands himself- what greater power is there in this realm than that. Even the King would be on your side” Lady Daerya had once muttered while combing through Ostaera’s hair.

Ostaera had not thought much on these words, but they had returned after her revelation of her own unimportance. Was her mother mayhaps right? She had a certain level of power, albeit had never made use of it and did not know what she should use it for either. Charity? But Tarth was well maintained, her brothers settling into the three prominent corners and looking forward to decades of improved relations around Tarth.

Becoming the Lady of a great house also sounded daunting. How could you expect someone to lead people when that someone did know nothing about leading?

Ostaera, a sudden epiphany in her head, leaned back slightly, not noticing her surroundings. That was the reason she felt so comfortable around Emmerich- not only his mere trust and character- but also his attitude, his station. He was not a Lord Paramount, or bound to inherit a large seat, but she knew he offered her all he could. He had seen the Kingdoms, and would take her to see them again- he had said as much. Neither wanted to be in one place, neither truly knew their purpose.

He had told her during their walk about how he was uncertain of his own future, too, that after five years of trying to reach a goal, an “after” had never occurred to him.

A picture, something Ostaera had always avoided in younger years, was forming in her mind’s eye- of the two of them returning from their latest venture, settling in back home and sharing their stories with their neighbours. It could not be done with children between your feet, or maybe it was possible.

If there was one thing, Ostaera knew, it was that she wanted to figure such small things out- not alone, anymore, not in competition but as one with Emmerich.

“Here they come!” Lady Ulrike interrupted the Tarth’s happy musings and she looked ahead to watch the winners of the last round take their places at the ends. It was Astraeon and Ser Emmerich himself, two of the last remaining finalists. The other were, of course, Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Oberyn Martell. The latter was the antithesis of what Ostaera had thought a prince to be, and she had absentmindedly wondered whether Crown Prince Rhaegar, a boy of fife-and-ten, was as carefree and full of life as Prince Oberyn. The Martell was vibrancy itself, quite the opposite of Emmerich who only ventured into colour when prompted it seemed (for most such clothes, Ser Alesan was responsible).

The two men nodded at each other, their horses prancing slightly on the spot, the clanking of steel on steel quite prominent in the tiltyard. She looked to Ser Emmerich, his bright steel armour offset by the purple surcoat, a small set of purple bands instead of a plume. Astraeon, however, still had is Tarth-coloured feathers attached, no surcoat but instead the besagews had been dyed like their sigil, small suns and moons embossed unto the cuirass.

“I do not know whether favouring either will help them win this tourney” Ostaera said, remembering that the other two contestants left were both skilled riders and fighters.

“They certainly seem determined” Lady Ramona smiled, watching her future husband close his visor and take on the colourful jousting lance with a sure grip. Ser Emmerich followed suit, the applause washing over the crowd.

After a signal by Lord Baratheon himself, his two sons leaning over the balustrade in excitement, threatening to topple over it at any moment, the two horses went off.

Ostaera still winced and flinched as she watched the thick wood splinter against the breastplate of Ser Emmerich and Astraeon’s pauldron, though both men stayed atop their horses.

“That shall gain him some points” laughed Cordelia, just in the moment as her own husband ascended the steps, his son following with a glowing face and a pair of their household guards in tow. Lord Dondarrion had been unseated by Ser Emmerich a few rounds prior, and their son had run off to greet his father.

“Ah, it is good to see, that the young knight may well prove himself today” Lord Dondarrion said, watching intently as the two opponents were given new lances and turned to face one another again.

“I wish so, too” said Lady Ramona with a wink in Ostaera’s direction and the young lady only barely managed to withhold a groan. Had the entirety of Westeros conspired against her head?

They would even further their plots when they were to know how close Ostaera was to simply agreeing to their schemes. But she did not want to spoilt her own happiness by involving her family, who would begin planning at once, to ensure a wedding would take place. No, she needed to know Emmerich’s heart and be open with him first. They were the ones that mattered.

“Papa!” called Mirella, flying across the wood and towards the steps were Linnaeus ascended, wincing when his daughter crashed into him quite forcefully.

He took his seat, placing Mirella in his lap were the girl finally stopped fidgeting: “Uncle Astraeon has not gotten the purple one from his horse yet. Do you think, he will?”

“Mayhaps, my dear, but I am inclined to think he will not win today.”

Mirella pouted, quite adorably in Ostaera’s opinion.

“He always wins, though!”

“His seat is not as good as in the beginning” Linnaeus explained, pointing to where Astraeon was shifting in his saddle ever so slightly, shaking out his arm, “I shall think in a round or two, the ‘purple one’ will win.”

“But Uncle Astraeon is getting wed on the morrow!” Mirella exclaimed as though it was the unwritten rule that a betrothed man shall always win a tourney. In her mind, that was most likely the case, too and Ostaera envied the young girl for her naïveté. She had always wanted her father to win any competition, and when she was that young, he had, crowing her mother, Cordelia and Ostaera herself in turn each time. Later, when Selwyn had beaten him for the first time, it had never been quite the same for other maidens suddenly received the winner’s wreath.

It had taken Ostaera years to understand that Selwyn had not forgotten about her, that he simply fancied himself in love with those girls and she had cried many nights about it before grasping the idea in full. She still called Selwyn an idiot to this day, whenever the situation called for it, and they would share a laugh after he promised to gift her his next crown. He had not won a joust or melee since, and both siblings considered that apt punishment for his misdeeds.

“I shall not be cross with him, should he lose” Lady Ramona said sweetly to the girl, “For the flowers are not my favourite and would clash quite horribly with my gown.”

Ostaera risked another look at the wreath that was resting atop a fine pillow, embroidered in black and gold, and a servant occasionally sprayed water over it with a little brush. The soft pink proteas were intertwined with orange-tinted poppies and single blue iris at centre front- a truly beautiful piece and it showed that the Baratheons had anticipated a Tarth to win.

“Well, I can wear it for you” answered Mirella just before the two riders collided once more, another set of lances splintering into a thousand pieces and Ostaera rubbed a hand over her collarbone to soothe the phantom pain she felt for Ser Emmerich.

The lances were thrown down and she could see Astraeon shake his arm out again, as though something was not quite right.

“I think, our brother is more gravely injured than we thought” she mumbled into Cordelia’s ear and the elder girl nodded, her eyebrows drawn together.

“He better not break his arm, he shall be insufferable.”

Ostaera slapped her lightly and the sisters smiled at each other, before looking to the jousters once more. Ser Emmerich had pushed up his visor to take a sip from the proffered waterskin, his face turned in their direction. He raised his right arm, where a slim blue band embroidered with suns and moons was attached to his wrist, to his face. Ostaera felt herself blush, almost feeling the softness of his lips against her own fingers from where he had kissed them before his departure after the breaking of fast.

The herald called out to the opponents, and Ostaera came to rest at the edge of her seat, her hands clutching the wood in a very unladylike manner. She did not care, however.

Crowns were not important, but she wished for Ser Emmerich to win nonetheless.

Hoofs clopped and drubbed and thundered over the well-trodden sand, spraying it in almost synchronized fashion into the air on both sides of the partition. The lances were lowered, again at almost the same moment, as though the two men could read each other’s minds or even shared one and the same. The sun glinted off the steel, the horses sweating visibly and Ostaera felt herself rise ever so slightly out of the cushion as she watched the lances land at their respective pauldrons.

Astraeon fell, Ser Emmerich also pushed on his back, but unlike her brother, he managed to stay safely seated. Ostaera jumped to her feet, as did Lady Ramona, as Astraeon rolled from his horse- a horse he had raised himself, a true Stormlander fit to be the finest destrier with a beautiful cream coat. He landed hard on the sand, and Ostaera wanted nothing more than to run down the stairs to help him up. But, she could not and there was another who thought the same.

Ser Emmerich, halting his horse, jumped down and strode over to Astraeon who had raised a hand to signal he was quite alright.

The crowd was still clapping for this minor knight who had beaten the house, the peasants always in favour of the less prestigious, awaiting another Barristan the Bold to step forward and snatch the laurel. With practiced gestures, Ser Emmerich got Astraeon to his feet, slung his arm over his shoulder and together they made their way off the yard while the sand was being smoothed over for the final two contestants.

She could see Ser Emmerich pass the Sword of the Morning himself, exchanging a few words, while Ser Arthur looked between him and Astraeon who had now taken off his helmet. Hands were shaken, the Dayne knight patting Ser Emmerich on the back before he made for his own black destrier.

Without raising any suspicions, Ostaera now rose to her feet, not quite interested in this upcoming joust, and gently went down the stairs. Lady Ramona stayed seated, but she met her eyes nevertheless. Silent words were exchanged, and Ostaera knew that it would be unseemly for an unwed woman to barge into the tent of someone who was not her husband or a close family member.

Ostaera nodded and left the stands to make for the rows of tents erected just outside, the more prominent ones further to a cliff wall where some shadow would be cast during most hours of the day. 

Women in scandalous outfits were walking between the tents with half-bored, half excited expressions, apparently planning their next venture in small groups. Would they seek the winning knight or the richest one?

One of the women sneered at Ostaera for a moment, but she paid it no mind. Their opinions were none of her concern, especially when her brother was injured.

She tried, and spectacularly failed, forgetting about Ser Emmerich’s presence in that tent. She was visiting her brother to ensure his health, to calm his betrothed. Ser Emmerich had nothing to do with her decision, _nothing at all._

She certainly did not want to hear his voice, or make sure his injuries were not dangerous. No, she was Lady Ostaera Tarth visiting her brother.

In front of the tent, the flap closed, she could hear the two talk and laugh, only interrupted by the painful groaning of Astraeon’s. Metal clanked.

“Better now? The maester is on his way, I hope” Ser Emmerich said, the rustling of clothes, “Do you have any salves at hand?”

“No, it never got this bad before. Linnaeus certainly did not pull his punches today” Astraeon winced and Ostaera finally had made up her mind.

This was about Astraeon, not Ser Emmerich.

Astraeon.

With determination, Ostaera pushed the tent open and stepped inside, and her eyes came to rest on Ser Emmerich where he leaned against a small dresser, watching with an amused expression as Astraeon tried to loosen the straps and belts on his cuirass. His long hair was curling against his forehead, his skin glistening and reddened. His hand fiddled with her favour, still wrapped around the gauntlet for the world to see.

“Sister, dearest” Astraeon exclaimed, breaking her out of her small reverie.

“That was quite the sound beating” she answered with a smile, Astraeon having finally given up from taking the armour off by himself. The right pauldron had been placed on the cot next to him, couter and vambrace stached underneath it.

“You do not have to remind me, I remember quite vividly” he scoffed, Ostaera rolled her eyes and retrieved the small ointment pot from her dress pocket, wrapping it out of its thick oiled cloth.

“Then you shall remember, too, that I am always more prepared than you are. Now, will you see reason and let me apply this cream. The maester will be quite preoccupied, I fear.”

“You should go back before the Dornish are finished” objected Astraeon, “I can take care of myself until that old dodderer makes his way here, my thanks once more, Ser Emmerich.”

“Protecting the weak was part of my oath, Lord Astraeon.”

“Be off already, no more taunting today. Tomorrow, I shall be in a better mood.”

Ser Emmerich laughed at Astraeon, with whom he had bonded after the melee- quite a surprising turn of events, yet Ostaera figured there was nothing better to connect men than slapping one another with live steel.

Ostaera kissed her brother on his temple, letting the piece of pottery fall into his waiting hands and avoided a bone crushing hug.

“You should consider a bath, too, Lady Ramona will not welcome your advances in this sorry state.”

With those words, Ostaera left the tent, followed suit by Ser Emmerich who smiled at her.

“Is my sorry state too repulsive for you, my lady?” he had his arm closed around the helmet, ready to put it on before the grand finale.

“Not quite, Ser Emmerich, for we are not related” she answered, “As long as my favour is safe with you, I shall endure your company.”

“It is luckier today than during the melee” he agreed, his dark green eyes twinkling good-humouredly, “Is there a connection to horses in your history I overlooked?”

They approached small stables for the most prestigious horses, right next to the entrance to the tiltyard used by the combatants. Inside, his horse was being brushed down by a young squire in a rapid manner.

“They are good animals, she is quite beautiful” Ostaera conceded, stepping closer to the horse to offer it some of the oats from a nearby bucket.

“Indeed” Ser Emmerich said quietly, Ostaera turned around to find him looking at the ground intently.

“Ser, that is no way to treat her” she teased, her hand coming to rest on her soft muzzle while she stared into the mare’s hazel eyes. The horse did have enviably long lashes, she noticed.

“Her name is Erin, she is from the Vale and we thought it an appropriate name.”

“A pun?” laughed Ostaera, turning around with Erin now behind her while the squire bowed from the stables for some unnamed reason. Ostaera still continuously ran her hand over the horse’s forehead, and finally Ser Emmerich looked up while stepping forward.

“Aye, there is not much else a squire thinks about when slightly drunk on wine and good company. Especially during a wedding.”

“Ah, your friend Ser Gerolds I assume?”

“Indeed, he was gifted a lot of fine steeds that day but could not keep them in good conscience and so he gave two of them to Ser Alesan and myself. Lady Harriet was quite rigorous, too- not as fond of riding that one.”

“Hm” Ostaera hummed, “A shame, I would like going for a ride with her, I think. She is wonderful company.”

Emmerich laughed, and Ostaera felt her heart skip. She liked his laugh, and his smile, too, the warmth in them. They were never loud or boisterous, that sound seemingly reserved for Ser Alesan, but instead private. Intimate. Ser Emmerich was not a brooding sort, a dimple adorning the right corner of his mouth and he wore an agreeable expression most days. But when he laughed, Ostaera thought with a smile, it was as if the world was allowed to catch a glimpse of the true beauty of is soul. 

Not for the first time, the lady wondered what the deep rumbling that accompanied the sound, would feel like beneath her fingertips. Or how soft his lips were, should she dare to kiss them as she wanted.

Warmth rose into her cheeks and Ostaera wanted to step out of the heat, when a horn was sounded, and they winced in unison.

“The joust has ended” Ser Emmerich said, though both knew that already. Mayhaps he, too, wanted to regain the silence from before, that feeling of something between them, almost like anticipation.

Ostaera’s neck still tingled, a thought manifesting itself clearer and clearer with each second their time together would be interrupted. It stretched down her arms and into her elbows, as if her whole body was now in support of this frankly manic idea it had concocted.

She looked at Ser Emmerich, he too standing indecisively in the doorway to Erin’s pen, and her fingers twitched against each other, the pointer finger of her right hand playing a minuet against the other.

She needed, nay yearned, to kiss this knight now, wanted to quench this longing that had been encompassing her head for the last days.

Ostaera, her heart pounding louder and louder in her chest (so loud, in fact, that it should be heard from here to the Lands of Always Winter), stepped forward with a bravery she did not know she could conjure.

Her hands came to rest atop his shoulders, her head slightly inclined to look in his eyes.

Time must have stopped, her head not able to formulate a single thought, just bare emotions pushing and pulling.

For once, they tried to move her into one direction.

Ostaera, biting her lip and with trembling fingers, let her hand trace over the plating on his shoulder and closer to his neck, her fingertips grazing the back of his head underneath his hair.

Carefully, she stepped closer once more, and Emmerich slowly placed his hands on her waist, the gauntlets forgotten in a stack of hay. His skin was warm, heated, and slightly dampened but she had never cared less.

Without hesitation, but still in a calm pace she did not feel truly, Ostaera lowered her head and placed her lips against Emmerich’s.

Oh, they were as soft as they looked.

Something was fluttering in her stomach, a warmth settling into every inch of her skin like the heat from a blazing fire in winter. She could only feel where she was kissing this knight, a giddiness, a happiness she had never known, filling her from the inside out.

Her arms encircled his neck, testing but not afraid. How could one feel afraid like this?

Ostaera had never put much stock in Viorel’s tales of sweet kisses, but now she knew what she had meant: it felt like being whole, like something had been missing that you could not remember and it now had returned.

Emmerich kissed her back as though she was the Maiden herself, and Ostaera knew the two of them had both waited and hoped for this very moment for the last five years. Now, they were here, in a stuffy set of stables next to the tourney grounds of Storm’s End with a horse watching them.

Ostaera smiled into the kiss, then, letting herself be pulled closer once more, her hands now getting lost in his lightly braided hair, she broke the kiss for the merest moment.

Her forehead came to rest against his, to revel in this feeling that felt too grand to be put into words- it deserved a song, an entire play. The great poets had been right.

_It is the star to every wandering bark._

“Is this your answer, my lady?”

His voice was small, hopeful and a smile resounding in it, a sound she revelled in.

“Only if you refrain from calling me my lady.”

“That” he placed a small kiss on her lips and Ostaera smiled involuntarily but brightly, “is out of the question, my lady. Most improper, too. I am a mere knight.”

“You wanted an answer, now you have it. You…you have awoken something in me, made me desire your company and your whole self within a few days’ time. I cannot put it into words for any man to understand, not truly, so I kissed you for it was the only way I could make it clear.”

She looked away, but he did not push her, his hands still resting against her back like they had found a home there.

“I am afraid of what is to come, I shall be honest with you, and I am afraid of falling in love with you, too. This…it means we shall be betrothed and I want us to be, truly, but…”

She let her sentence run out, unsure of how to end it.

“I understand, Ostaera” he answered, “I made mistakes, not writing you, not getting to know you more. But I want to build on this” he gestured between them, as much as he could anyway.

“I want that, too. My family will want us to move at a hastier pace, they never said anything but the moment Linnaeus was married they searched for an appropriate spouse for me, too. In a way, you were their greatest hope.”

“How soon will it be? Mayhaps we can stall them for some time?” Ser Emmerich sounded quite alarmed, though mostly surprised

She laughed, shaking her head: “Tarths have a horrid history with betrothals, they need to be as short as possible lest they fall through completely. Astraeon was betrothed for less than a year, and Linnaeus even shorter.”

“If you…if there comes a time when you wish to break the marriage…”

“Let us think about that” she interrupted his words, “if such a time ever comes. Not in this moment. There is…I do not know how to say it without sounding ridiculous…”

“Try it, we have come this far with ridiculous words.”

They shared another laugh, silent.

“I feel like you are going to be worth it, that I want to work all of this out, this nonsense of marriage, with you” she admitted, “Nothing between us has been what I thought it would be when you left last time. There was so much disappointment in my heart, but you held word and it is sweeter because of the pain.”

“There will be no more pain, I promise that, too. No more mistakes.”

“Hopefully there will be” Ostaera objected carefully, “If that were the case, we would not be standing in this place next to a horse. Being careful has not been the best course of action, I think. Mayhaps another needs to be taken.”

“As long as I live to see the next dawn, I trust your judgement.”

Someone cleared their throat, and Ostaera felt her heart stop until she realised it was neither her father nor one of her brothers, but instead the two Dornishmen who must have come from the tiltyard from the other side. Their horses were nowhere to be seen and Ostaera wondered for a moment what they were doing in this stable without them, when Prince Oberyn inclined his head and pulled Ser Arthur out into the sun, closing the door behind them.

“Good men” Emmerich said, now truly stepping away from her but his right hand holding her own.

“Indeed” Ostaera agreed, slowly following the two others outside while Emmerich finished tending to Erin. They did not exchange words, her and her knight, but it was as though they did not need to. They understood one another regardless and Ostaera laughed heartily, uncaring of her surroundings.

Emmerich.

The best knight in the Seven Kingdoms. She still did not know what made him choose her, but for the first time, Ostaera had an inkling as to what it had been. She could still feel the reason for her own decision in her stomach, like butterflies wreaking havoc inside. The first step was always the hardest, was that not the saying?

On this connection, and on Emmerich himself, Ostaera would not relent. It was good, and gentle and wild and beautiful. To grow it into something that could withstand time itself- that she wanted. Would it be a bumpy road? Most likely, but simply remembering today (Ostaera felt another blush, but the smile on her lips stayed as though she held the world’s most cherished secret) would push her through the worst times, whatever was to come.

Ostaera had never been a sad girl, always quite happy despite the struggles the world had placed in her path, but nothing could compare to the way Emmerich made her feel, and she wanted to experience all the future held for them with him by her side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.   
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment- every piece of criticism and opinions helps me out.
> 
> Here are, should you be so inclined, a few of my own notes/questions/thoughts in regards to this chapter:
> 
> The first one is a bit long, be warned.  
> Recently, I watched a very interesting YouTube video on the movie "A Knight's Tale" by Ladyknightthebrave which was kind of a leap for me- I haven't watched that film since I was ten or something, but it mentioned "We will Rock you" and as with all things Queen, I jumped right into it. What I didn't expect (and I highly recommend watching the video) was a revelation in regards to my own _writing_. Or specifically, how bad I actually am at writing female characters. Looking back at the people I have written thus far (even in my other Fanfic's), the men always come out stronger somewhat. In this Fanfic, it has hit Ostaera especially hard because I suddenly realized that despite all the plot structuring and backgrounds I developed, I somehow didn't know _who_ this MC is- that's bad. I rewrote the entire first half of the chapter, especially with all the ladies in the stands, to get some life into them.   
> That's the reason why Cordelia is now really into natural sciences. **What did you make of that part of the chapter?** (Also, another really important part of my inspiration is a show called **Critical Role** , a group of nerdy-ass voice actors sitting around and playing Dungeons& Dragons- I can only recommend the show, since it's like the love child of ASOIAF, LoTR, a whole lot of video games and just...nerd culture in general.)
> 
> Another huge part of the Chapter, and now Ostaera as a character too, is her feeling of being "quite ordinary"- nothing outstanding. It's something alot of people especially around the age of 18-20 struggle with, as you're starting to realize that you don't know anything despite having graduated/ chosen a career. **What do you think Ostaera's purpose could turn out to be? Does it help with making her more real and human?**
> 
> We also have another interaction between Emmerich and Ostaera, and we learn something about her feelings for him which are quite strong, though in denial at the same time. Then, the (more or less) pivotal scene of the chapter arrives when Ostaera decides to kiss Emmerich. **How do you feel about that moment? Was it subversive but still signifcant as I intended or did it lack something?** Also I could not avoid quoting Shakespeare (you never should not quote him). 
> 
> With that, however, I shall bid you adieu. I am still torn on the next PoV, but we will most likely stay in Storm's End and check in with Rhaegar later.   
> Another thing I'd like to say, that I will **[The night is dark and full of Spoilers]** probably make a "GRRM time jump" at some point, but that will be decided anon. [End of the spoilers]
> 
> Thank you for sticking around.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	7. Emmerich II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I loved this man, Emmerich, he was my greatest friend and he lost himself because he fell in love with a princess with purple eyes and silver gold hair. They are dangerous, life’s but a game for them- a stage where us peasants are nothing more than actors dressed up for their entertainment.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> After a short absence, due to the goings on this week, I am back.  
> This is the first chapter in this story I did not re-read in its entirety, and it was difficult to write. However, I hope it is not too much of a drop in quality. It was fun.
> 
> This note was supposed to be longer, but some dumbass (me) accidentally clicked a button down below and all was lost. So, this is actually the second time I am typing this which is great.
> 
> Nevertheless, thank you all for leaving Kudos and writing comments- I see you and I appreciate you, my day gets better every time that little icon from my email inbox pops up.
> 
> Without further ado, for now, let's get into today's chapter.

# Emmerich II

He could not believe the luck he had had.

Emmerich, once more standing in the stables, just smiled while leaning against a wooden post. He did not care, that Prince Oberyn had soundly beaten him just moments before, he could not even feel his limbs hurting.

The crown was mayhaps not resting atop Ostaera’s head, instead on Lady Ashara Dayne’s, but instead they had kissed- she had kissed him!

He leaned forward, his forehead resting against the rough surface while Erin was already inside her pen. Another broad grin spread across his face, he felt like he had smoked too many of Alesan’s favourite weeds. The world seemed to be spinning, though that might be the result of Prince Oberyn’s fucking lance.

As if that thought alone brought back the pain itself, Emmerich groaned, trying to get the pressure of his back.

“Mighty stupid to make that call” he heard from the entrance, Alesan’s voice smug but also weirdly proud, “Should’ve aimed for that stomach of his.”

“You say that now” Emmerich groaned, “Where was that insight an hour ago?”

“Inside my head, you know I’m the genius here.”

Emmerich forcefully pulled himself upright, a flash of bright pain like he had seldom felt before (a blatant lie, he reminded himself) brought him to his knees and if it were anyone besides Alesan, he might have felt ashamed.

“Come on, you fell from a horse” Alesan nagged, nevertheless stepping up and pulling him nimbly to his feet.

Together they stumbled in the direction of Emmerich’s own tent, and it felt weirdly like trying to sneak into their bedrolls after a night of drunken revelry without waking up their knights. They had never been particularly good at that, and they weren’t now either, being interrupted by friendly knights and a few laughing women on the way.

“Fell down, did you?” he heard some Lannister holler, though Emmerich only managed to raise a hand.

More laughter.

“Join us at the fires tonight!” another man called out, and Emmerich righted himself after only the smallest hesitance. 

“Ser Oskar, will you not join the ball?” the young knight asked, opening his eyes though the brightness of the light was not welcome, to stare at the elderly man. Ser Oskar grinned, the twice-broken nose only slightly distracting from his piercing pale-grey eyes.

“No, boy. Tis to be a night of merriment for the Tarths and I do not belong with them.”

“You sound like some hedge knight” laughed Alesan, shifting a groaning Emmerich only to slap his friend around the chest which made Emmerich wince once more.

Ser Oskar and Alesan rolled their eyes in unison and even from his lopsided position around Alesan’s shoulder, Emmerich tried to send a glare at them. They simply laughed louder, hoisting him the few feet and into the well-lived in set of purple canvas.

“Settle down” Ser Oskar advised, pouring himself a goblet of simple red wine from a pitcher, “the evening’s bound to be long, those fine lords and ladies will not end the night till the last cask of wine is emptied.”

Emmerich unlaced his vambraces and greaves, at the same time, but was quite unsuccessful. With the clanking of the metal plating, he sank back against the bedding.

Closing his eyes, he could only see Ostaera’s blush, her sapphire eyes and could feel her lips press against his. It was the sweetest promise, better than any words he had ever heard, easily replacing the pain whenever it threatened to overtake him.

He remembered her words, her fears, and wanted nothing more than to soothe those worries though he did not know how. Distracting himself from every muscle aching as if he were a squire during his first day of work.

He had never aspired to be anything more than a knight, a good man like his father’s older brother- he had heard tales of the man, but he had disappeared some time ago. Hastifer, something like that.

Now, he was almost betrothed to the finest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, only needed to await her talking to her family and they would be set.

“I heard a rumour, son” asked Ser Oskar, settling down in a chair somewhere, “Some Dornishmen came walking by and gossiped like washer women about a young couple.”

“I would never dare dishonour her” yawned Emmerich, “She is talking to her family at this very moment about marrying me, if you must know.”

“You learned, then.”

“Not much, if I’m honest. I should have listened to you, picked up some parchment and written some words.”

“I did not say, you learned much” Ser Oskar’s eyes glimmered in humour, “But some, at least. I am happy for you, Emmerich. Now you only need to keep that good in your life.”

“You never married, Ser Oskar, why?” Emmerich heard himself ask, unbuckling his cuirass while Alesan helped him with the pauldrons, “You certainly liked your women.”

Ser Oskar laughed: “Oh, liking women does not mean I would want to settle with one.”

The older knight looked out the tent flap, watching some passer-byes intently, ere he continued.

“Now you are to be wed, I should be honest with you- completely.”

Alesan and Emmerich exchanged looks. What news would warrant this grave of a tone from a man who like pretending he had never been serious in all his life?

It made Emmerich more nervous than he wanted to admit, it never was a good sign when Ser Oskar got ready to tell you a truth. Last time, the young knight remembered vividly, had been when word came his mother had died- they had been all the way in the Vale, a few days before the wedding of one of his best friends. Steeling himself for the worst, Emmerich locked his eyes on Ser Oskar who was turning the goblet between his fingers like it would grant him a wish.

“I knew your uncle, a squire like myself- following the same knight, Ser Ronald Estermont.”

Emmerich paused in his task, his shaking fingers stopped working as he really understood these words. He could not say anything, too shocked. He had known Ser Oskar for years now and he had never dared tell him this story?

Now, Emmerich had never known Bonifer Hasty and the man had never visited his parent’s homestead after either had died. Or their graves, for that matter. For a moment, Emmerich was inside the little house with its colourful shutters with his mother waving goodbye while her only son rode out of Wendwater Crossing.

“Bonifer was a good man” Ser Oskar continued, ripping Emmerich out of his memory “But he had too much spirit, too much daring in his veins. Fell in love with someone he could never have, a Targaryen.”

Suddenly, he had to get up. He knew where this conversation was going, somehow recalling some words his mother had once told him about this Bonifer Hasty. But, Ser Oskar did not let him escape. Holding him under a spell as if he was one of those woods witches.

“I loved this man, Emmerich, he was my greatest friend and he lost himself because he fell in love with a princess with purple eyes and silver gold hair. They are dangerous, life’s but a game for them- a stage where us peasants are nothing more than actors dressed up for their entertainment.”

“Lady Ostaera- she is not like that!” Emmerich exclaimed, his gauntlet slamming into the soft dirt, “Tarth is not like that! They are the most honourable men I have ever met!”

Ser Oskar looked almost pitying.

“The girl will not have a choice, of that I am certain, son. Bonifer thought, his Rhaella would follow him to the ends of the world but she married her brother.”

Emmerich felt himself pale.

“He…he fell in love with the Queen?”

That bit, he had never heard.

“Aye. She promised him great and sweet things, too, but she could not hold word.”

“But that’s not Ostaera” Alesan interjected, suddenly animated, “She’s just a Tarth of Evenfall Hall and no one’s going to marry her, certainly not the crown prince. I mean...no offence, but she’s not exactly a Queen of Beauty to most people.”

“That is your only hope” Ser Oskar agreed, fixing Emmerich with his intense stare, “She never can reach the king’s attention as a possible bride, and your love shall never be in danger.”

“Why should he even look to Tarth?” asked Alesan, “The family’s not the most influential, at all. Even the Stormlands offer better than that tiny island.”

“If that’s what the king’s looking for, he will marry Rhaegar to that daughter of Lord Lannister. I don’t recall her name, but she would be most obvious” Emmerich said, feeling better about his prospects all at once.

Nothing could come between him and Ostaera, their families (or what was left of them) supported them. They loved each other, or would grow to- of that he was certain. With new vigour, Emmerich rose from the cot, striding over to the simply wooden box that contained his fancied garments.

“I’m not my uncle, Ser Oskar. I didn’t fall in love with the king’s sister and I don’t intend to wait for any other woman.”

His heart was beating strongly in his chest, trying to look at this man that had raised him, had taught him the things he knew best, and loved best, and sought for affirmation in his eyes.

There was no one, not even Alesan or Gerold, whom Emmerich trusted as implicitly as Ser Oskar.

The knight sighed, looking to the ceiling for the smallest moment, before he pulled out a leather pouch from the inside of his thick cape. With admirable accuracy, Ser Oskar tossed the small blackened pouch and Emmerich caught it.

“I see your hope, Emmerich. And I hope, too, because you mean a lot to me- because Bonifer meant even more to me, but you need to be careful with this lot. You’re too good to lose to them, you deserve the best this world can offer.”

“What kind of a man was Bonifer?” asked Emmerich, curious about this man his parents only talked about scarcely, “Is he dead?”

“Oh no” laughed Ser Oskar, “Bonifer was never one to give up on life that easily, he’s now a Follower of the Seven, though I have not seen him for some years. He’s left King’s Landing after you were born, trying to get away from the royals for some time.”

“They never talked about him much.”

“It’s difficult, you lose someone who’s your brother because of something like that, it’s not nice” Ser Oskar admitted, “I wanted to help your parents as much as I could, try to get some money to them as Bonifer would’ve liked. But sometimes, a knight gets called away. Once, I could swear I saw him in the War…but that was not Bonifer Hasty’s style.”

“The Ninepenny kings?” Alesan clarified, clearly trying to recall the details of the major battles though he had never been as good with his histories as Emmerich. Much better with strategy, though which Emmerich was loath to admit.

“The very same” Ser Oskar admitted, “You never forget a fight like that, though I hope you lot never have to face off against something of the sort again.”

He grimaced, as if remembering some terrible memory and Emmerich no longer felt the urge to press him for details. Hearing Ser Oskar talk as if he felt a different storm breaking across the horizon, made him feel unsettled.

War.

He could not go off to fight for some King when he was wed, how could he leave Ostaera like that- alone, somewhere in the Stormlands?

Emmerich looked down at the pouch, then up to Ser Oskar once more: “Will I know what to do with this thing?”

“I should hope so, if not you’re a bigger idiot than even this Thorne here” Ser Oskar laughed roughly, “Use it wisely, boy. There’s no going back after it, a pledge for life.”

Carefully, Emmerich pulled the strings open and looked at what was inside the pouch. It couldn’t be much, since it was very light and flat, but something twinkled up at him like a small star. 

It fell into his flattened palm, the small chain attached slithering out like a tiny snake of silver.

“What is that?” Emmerich asked, looking at the ring in awe. It had to be the most precious thing he had ever held in his fingers, and they suddenly looked too dirty to do so.

But he could not bring himself to drop it. It was thin, but indefinitely intricate, with the black steel wrought like flames, closing around three stones, two carved amethysts and a weird black gemstone. Emmerich knew nothing about precious materials, and he had never seen a black stone that seemingly shimmered with some purple fire from within.

“That’s actually a Targaryen heirloom.”

It slipped through his fingers, falling into the cloth of his tabard.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Emmerich shouted, trying to pick the ring up once more, “If it’s that, it should be as far from me as possible!”

“Calm down, it was given to Bonifer as a reward for winning that Tourney for Princess Rhaella- honourably, and justly- do you really think, I would try to get you killed by the King after finally knighting you after years?”

He looked down at the ring again, turning it over carefully: “What’s that gem in the centre? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I would hope not. It’s called dragonglass, apparently, found on Dragonstone- the first place the Targaryens landed after fleeing Valyria. The metal is real Valyrian steel.”

Carefully, Emmerich opened the pouch to put the ring back but he caught sight of something else in its depths. It was a piece of black silk satin ribbon, embroidered with shimmery red thread.

“Ah, I wondered where that had gotten to” Ser Oskar laughed, “I never opened the thing after Bonifer made me take it. It’s the favour that got him into that whole Faith mess in the first place, embroidered by Queen Rhaella herself.”

“There is some words on the backside” Alesan said, pointing uselessly but clearly mesmerized by these two little pieces, “You know what they are, Ser Oskar?”

“Some High Valyrian. I’m not an expert, but Bonifer used to say them before a fight sometimes- well, at least before he needed to get away. _Va moriot aōhon._ It means ‘always yours’.”

“I think, Lady Ostaera will like the gesture if nothing else.”

“Not so sure” Emmerich mumbled, “The whole affair was doomed from the beginning.”

“Then” Ser Oskar rose, “Show her you don’t intend to let your good luck go to waste. Those highborn ladies deserve more than the hands they're dealt. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I always remember” he promised, placing the pouch inside his own satchel that was resting underneath his armour around the hip.

“We will join you later, when this failure of a knight can move more than his useless mouth” Alesan called after Ser Oskar before falling onto the bedding like a wet sack of potatoes.

“Should I go to them now?” Emmerich asked, “Or is that too soon?”

“Give her some time” Alesan clapped his hand around his shoulder and Emmerich winced, “With that many siblings she’s bound to be busy. At least her brother didn’t kill you in the first melee. She’ll either send for you or come by herself.”

“Right. I’ll wash off and take a nap til the fires start. What about you?”

Alesan shrugged: “Need to visit some relative of mine who’s running around the campsite, apparently. I saw another Thorne banner in the joust but couldn’t remember who that was.”

“And?”

“Ser Allesar Thorne, my father’s cousin. Haven’t heard from him since I was five or something, not the most liked.”

“Didn’t know you Thornes even liked anyone…”

“Careful, or I’ll tell my mother and she’ll never bake you that cake again.”

Emmerich laughed, remembering Lady Thorne’s excellent baking skills, while she watched the two young men wreak havoc in her small garden. Her peach cake was the best thing, Emmerich had ever eaten.

“You’re just jealous, I am here clear favourite” he said, watching with roaring laughter as Alesan finally got up from the cot and stomped out the tent with a rude gesture.

They all knew, it was true that Gerold would always be her true favourite, since the Vale Knight had charmed Lady Thorne off her feet within a second of meeting her. The woman had blushed as Gerold presented his gift, a bouquet of wildflowers that grew within five miles of her home, with a bow. It had to be the armour, Emmerich thought with a smile and pulled his sticky shirt over his head.

It landed unceremoniously on a piece of wooden planks that pretended to be a floor.

Hopefully, his home in the Crossing was in a better state, the toun at least tended to by their farmhands and the villagers. He could not bring Ostaera into a house that was falling apart, she was used to castles with glass windows.

All he had to offer where shutters and a hopefully well-made bed.

Mayhaps he should write to Old Christoffer, their maester, so they did not arrive there without any preparations being made. The man would appreciate that, Emmerich was sure- and the little hamlet even more. Gods, he had not been back since his mother’s death. They did not even know, their village’s youngest had been knighted.

He had been so caught up with his training and Ostaera that he had forgotten about those that raised him, with shadows of large oak and birch and sentinel cast overhead and the ever flowing Wendwater gurgling between the houses.

Fuck, now he was missing home.

Emmerich raised his knees off the bedding, his arms crossed beneath his head as though he was laying in a meadow a mile from home instead of inside a small tent in Storm’s End. It was so different, and all the same from what he thought his life would be.

His father had been a farmer, all Hastys for generations born and raised in Wendwater Crossing with only a few weird ones like Bonifer and Emmerich setting out to become…what? A knight?

What did a knight do, in his life? Was he supposed to venture up and down the Seven Kingdoms to teach a squire his ways? Was he even allowed to settle down, to raise a family?

Suddenly, Emmerich felt too young for all this. He was six-and-ten.

Marriage.

Children.

Staring at the leather, Emmerich felt the pouch with the ring weighing him down like an actual stone.

He loved Wendwater Crossing, he loved Ostaera- and he loved being a knight and travelling with Alesan, too.

Would Gerold understand him, if he asked? Mayhaps not, Gerold had known what he was going to become from the day his father put a sword in his hands. A little lord, a fancy heir in the esteemed Vale of Arryn. But that was not Emmerich, was it?

Alesan was too much of a shithead to help him, would slap him for questioning his good fortune and end the conversation by leaving. He was right in that, he had fought his way up as well, had cut ties with most of his family to become a knight.

Ser Oskar was the closest thing he had to a father right now, but the man had never married either. He had never told him why and Emmerich had always felt like stabbing the man when he had asked. That look of actual pain was answer enough.

Carefully, Emmerich rose to his feet and found his balance.

There was a man he needed to talk to, anyway, when there was a decision to be made. Someone whom he owed his honesty, who had to judge him in the end.

The young knight found his way through the rows of tents, waving at a few people here and there but being mostly undisturbed. He was no charismatic Prince Oberyn or pretty Arthur Dayne, that’s for sure- no, the two were already regaling a host of ladies and lords in the inner courtyard where sconces had been lit.

Emmerich could see the Princess Elia, and the Lady Ashara, both with their flower crowns and standing in the embrace of each other’s brothers’ arms. They looked like family, he thought with a small smile and a nod towards the men, with purples and oranges flowing together in the early evening light. 

The grand banners on both sides of the heavily embossed, blackened wood doors, fluttered dangerously close to the braziers underneath and Emmerich thought it would not bode well for Storm’s End to burn down. That was Targaryen business, not Stormlander.

The doors swung open a bit to let him in, and even though Emmerich had been to the castle for a few times now, he would never get used to the high ceilings and the stag gargoyles flanking the Entrance Hall like eerie sentinels. Rumour had it, they even had an underground entrance and secret passageways and he could not doubt that.

If he had a castle, he would install some secret paths first- hidden behind a painting or a bookshelf or even a tapestry. But mayhaps, a Lord Paramount was too pompous for something like that. Was that even useful, to build entrances and exits only for people to gossip about that?

Now, standing at the bottom of a set of sweeping stairs made of black granite with golden veins running through it, Emmerich watched as two young boys in Baratheon livery made a display of fighting with wooden swords around the stairs and the first landing.

It was almost precarious, but Emmerich did not dare interrupt them- their laughter echoing through the mostly empty halls. The two probably relished in the attendance of other people, in a dark place such as this. He always forgot how grandiose the interior of the keep was, for all the grey and strict military design of the outer walls and baileys. Almost as if two people had built the place and disagreed on everythint. Mayhaps that was a husband and wife thing?

Emmerich ascended the stairs, trying to ignore the imposing gold leafed statue of a stag that stared down at him. As if it knew he was just a peasant.

Creepy thing. For the first time, Emmerich was glad that his house did not have an animal on its crest- they always looked weird in person. Also, they were really hard to embroider (he had tried and failed with the two stripes, promptly giving up).

A girl and boy in red and gold stood on the landing, looking up at the stag with great interest and stopped their squabbling as Emmerich passed.

Lions of Lannister were proudly displayed on their small capelets, and he gave them a wide birth, just to be on the safe side. The boy looked at him with an open mouth, even raised a hand in a shy wave while the girl had turned away again, her gaze now settling on the two Baratheon’s still play-fighting.

The boy, James or something, if Emmerich recalled correctly, still looked at him and Emmerich smiled awkwardly.

That seemed to be all the Lannister needed and he strode up to him, as though he owned this castle and mayhaps the world itself.

“You fought in the lists, and the melee, too!” he exclaimed without a word of greeting and Emmerich, who had hoped for one of the guards to be his escape, tried his half-smile again.

If this was truly Lord Lannister’s, the Hand of the King’s, son, he could be royally fucked. Almost literally, even.

“That’s true, Lord” Emmerich answered, trying to sound neutral, “Though there were better men fighting this time around.”

The young boy nodded, a big smile on his face and his green eyes shining with excitement. Oh, Emmerich remembered the feeling though he had not seen someone as magnificent as Ser Arthur Dayne on his first tourney. No, for him it had been a knight from Musgood though he had never met him before or after.

“The Sword of the Morning” the lordling breathed, “I want to be a knight like that.”

Silence.

Emmerich swallowed, could already see the boy’s waning enthusiasm, but then he remembered something.

“Ahm, Ser Arthur is in the courtyard with his…uhm entourage.”

The shine was back inside the Lannister’s emerald eyes and without a look back to his sister (Emmerich presumed), he was flying down the staircase, past the Baratheons who thoughtlessly chased after him and left through the gates.

That was quite the sprint, the Hasty knight mused, mayhaps the boy did have the making of a good or at least decent knight in him. With a father like that, anything else most likely was not approved.

“Did you have to tell him that?” the girl said, Emmerich turning towards her. She smiled and made a wave with her small arms in the direction of her brother.

“Now I have to go after him, too.”

“Sorry, my lady. I was not anticipating that he would run off like that.”

“It is alright, Ser.”

With that, and a rather gracious decent in the wake of the boys’ cluttering madness, the Lannister heiress left the castle too, leaving only Emmerich and the set of guards.

“Weird children” he muttered to himself, shaking his head and finally turning around to face the man in Baratheon armour he had wanted to talk to.

“I’m looking for the guest quarters of House Tarth, Lord Tarth in particular. Where would I find them?”

Emmerich inwardly shuddered. That sounded rather odd, even to his own ears. But to his credit, the guard did not look perturbed.

“Up the right and up two levels, there the entire family is settled.”

“Thank you. Have a good day, my friend.”

“Ser.”

Emmerich nodded at the other guard and made for the stairs, trying to focus on the rather simply instructions. Was he to go through the archway ahead or was there another staircase somewhere.

He should have asked for a map of this place, though that might not have gone over well. Let them include the secret passageways, too.

Thankfully, Emmerich’s internal panicking was brought to an abrupt end when he saw two men in Tarth livery wait on both sides of the archway he had been fretting over.

There was even a Tarth Banner hanging from a wooden plaque atop said archway.

Trying to look more confident than he felt, Emmerich ambled into the corridor that was a whole lot simpler than the entrance hall. Only black granite and simple gold inlays in dark wood graced the walls, though most of it was covered by half magnificent- half ugly tapestries showing hunts, and stags, and other woodland creatures.

Stags, everywhere, though.

The hallway lead into an antechamber, with a few doors leading into different directions.

He chose to wait, not wanting to disturb anyone in their preparations or rest, and sat down in a simple chair at a table. A game of cyvasse was set up, played with, too but Emmerich knew next to nothing about the game. Except, that it was difficult and Alesan liked teasing him with it. That Thorne was a damned good player, beating Ser Oskar for years now. On the other hand, he let Emmerich talk to the shopkeepers and smiths every time so he could not curse them each sentence.

Looking out the small window, Emmerich thought he would most likely miss Alesan the most- his home was near King’s Landing, along the Gods Eye River and not really close to Wendwater Crossing. Not that Alesan had ever talked much about the place, anyway.

“You look thoughtful for such a young man” a deep voice interrupted and Emmerich rose to his feet, trying not to look surprised and most likely failing.

Lord Tarth was grinning down at him, at least a foot and a half taller than Emmerich and that was a low estimate. Especially after taking such a beating today, he felt a lot smaller, and not even thinking of the kiss was enough to distract him.

Thinking of kissing the man’s daughter while trying to gain some insight and advice was not the smartest idea, anyway.

“Now, I have an inkling as to what your intention is- but please, take a seat. I am interested to hear what you have to tell me.”

Emmerich sat down, some of his joints cracking a bit and he winced. Lord Tarth only laughed.

“You fought well, but that was a harsh few rounds against Prince Oberyn at the end. I really thought, you could take him, alas…”

“Should have aimed for his chest” Emmerich tried, smiling slightly.

This was fine.

Fine.

Really, fine. His heart was not beating at four- times its usual pace, as if it wanted to gallop into the night.

“You do not look particularly happy for a man who wants to marry my little daughter” Lord Tarth said, raising a goblet of water and taking a long sip, as if he offered Emmerich an opportunity to explain himself.

“That is not what I am here for, not if she has not talked to you yet.”

“She has indeed not, but she is conspiring with her handmaiden and Lady Ulrike at this very moment. Though they could be talking about something else, I am sure. What is it then, Ser?” 

Emmerich gulped down the watered wine.

“How did you…a marriage seems…it is a lot.”

“Aye, it is difficult.”

“Well, I am afraid of doing something wrong- and doing wrong by your daughter, too. What if I am not ready to settle, yet?”

Lord Tarth regaled him with a thoughtful look.

“If I am allowed to be honest, Ser Emmerich, you are never prepared for what being wed means until you are wed. I know, you want your freedom and especially since you were just knighted a few moon turns ago” his sapphire blue eyes were piercing, holding Emmerich in place like a pinned butterfly, “And if you wish it, you shall have that freedom. Though, a decision has to be made fast- I do not know you, Ser, but I know my daughter. Honesty is what you should offer her, now or hold your piece forevermore. There is no second chance I can offer you, that she will offer you- of that you can be certain. Should you decide that being wed to Ostaera is not for you at this very point in time, it was your last chance.”

“I made her wait once before, my lord” Emmerich said, feeling a lot more confident at the older man’s intent, “It is not a mistake I would like to repeat.”

“What can you offer her, then?”

“I am a landed knight, with fields and cattle at the Wendwater- it’s a small settlement but with good people.”

“And you think, Ostaera is fit to be the lady of such a household?”

“It is her choice to be made, and I intend to let her make that choice for herself. We both are…restless, in a sense, my lord.”

Lord Tarth nodded carefully.

“It is going to be a long road, Ser Emmerich, that you need to be aware of.”

“I am aware.”

“Then, what is your question? You seem quite sure of yourself.”

Emmerich hesitated for a mere moment. What was his question?

This lord would not call him a coward, no matter how much Emmerich wished him to. Did he want to be shamed into taking Ostaera for his wife? Not at all, he wanted her and a life with her as much as ever.

But the white spaces in his head, that seemed to stretch between the small paintings his imagination had created (of the two of them settling underneath a tree, or eating together, dancing somewhere- mostly broad swathes of colour and light and shadow), they scared him now. They had never appeared before, as though he had never known what time itself was.

“How…is marriage?”

Lord Tarth laughed once more, but it was a kind sound and Emmerich felt at home in it. This lord seemed larger than life to him, those years ago, but now he was more man than myth.

“That” Lord Halcyon finally said, “is not a question one can answer in a single night. Marriage is a process, at least it was for me and my lady wife, and you never know what is coming for you. There are ugly parts and beautiful parts, and they both come together. I could write you a book of every day of my life with Lady Daerya and you could burn it for all the good it would do you. Get to know my daughter, help each other figure out what lies ahead and take the challenges life presents.”

“I do not remember much from my parents” Emmerich confessed, “They knew each other all their life, they were meant to be wed from the day they were born almost. Destined, if you believe in something like that. They were happy, I think.”

“That is a good start, Ser Emmerich. Better than most high born lords can offer. Even you showing up here, and saying these things and wanting my advice on more than my daughter’s favourite flower, tells me a lot about the man you are becoming.”

Emmerich was silent for a moment, trying to remember himself, what Ostaera’s favourite flower was and coming up with nothing which scared him.

On the other hand, there was much Ostaera did not know about him either. If there was anything to know, at all.

“You’re young yet” Lord Tarth said, rising once more and walking towards one of the doors, “If you already knew the answer to life’s greatest secret, it would worry me more than that look of blatant alarmism on your face.”

That, Emmerich admitted, was an almost comforting thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, leave Kudos or a comment. Also, if you didn't like it, leave a comment, too- feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> For your consideration, I have a few question/ thoughts that can also work as a summary since I don't know whether I can keep up with the usual pattern of uploading.
> 
> First, I hope you are not too disappointed that Emmerich did, in fact, not win this Tourney. That was the initial plan but after almost seventy page, it felt wrong to the tone of this story. **What did you make of that?** Also, a lot of my ideas have gotten scrapped, which is good- some indirectly due to all of your input.
> 
> Next, we get introduced to Ser Oskar, the knight that took Emmerich as his squire after the last Tourney of Storm's End. **What is your first impression of the man?** Also, he tells us that he knew Ser Bonifer Hatsy and imparts some wisdom on Emmerich. A friendly reminder, that this will not be a retelling of the Rhaella/Bonifer story (though that would be nice, too) and also, that Aerys has yet to enter his "Rhaegar needs a wife yesterday" phase. 
> 
> Ser Oskar hands Emmerich a pouch that contains a ring made of Valyrian steel, with two amethysts and a piece of dragonglass- the champion's prize Bonifer won and gave Ser Oskar for safekeeping. It is inscribed with the words _Va moriot aōhon_ , which mean: Always yours. Most objects that have some symbolism attached to it in canon are swords (Oathkeeper, Longclaw, Needle etc) but I hope this was not too cliché. In regards to the dragonglass, I know there are some theories floating around in regards to what it means and how they relate to everything. I have yet to find a satisfying answer, so the theory is going to develop from here on. **What are your thoughts?**
> 
> We learn some more about Emmerich's upbringing, his parents are both dead and they lived in a small town named Wendwater Crossing. My placing of their home is based on the rendition of J.E. Fullerton that actually includes _all_ minor houses and their possible location. It's an amazing piece of art and really illustrates the Seven Kingdoms. Let's see how and when we get to see the place.
> 
> Then, comes the panic and our favourite knight sets out to find answers. He is quite young, indeed, to think about settling down- he is still a teenager, to our standards, and **hopefully that was realistic?**
> 
> We get an actual inside view of Storm's End, and I tried to unite the grandeur of a major southern House (they are not the Starks with a very minimalistic style) with what we know the castle to look like. On the stairs, play-fighting are young Robert and Stannis (12 and 10, respectively). Their relationship is a bit odd, and not quite brotherly according to both of them later on. However, we only see them briefly and **I hope their introduction was alright.**  
>  Another pair we see, are Cersei and Jaime underneath the golden stag statue. **What did you make of the twins?** Cersei has not yet met the woods witch, and no girl of eight is going to be evil incarnate.
> 
> And lastly, the conversation between Lord Halcyon Tarth and Emmerich- **was it useful or redundant?** That interaction, apart from describing the ring and the castle, was my favourite part of the chapter since I didn't know how the characters would react to one another.
> 
> The next PoV will be another original character, taking us across the Narrow Sea and mayhaps shall include some elephants.
> 
> With that, however, I shall bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	8. Taj I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Taj remembered being young, and wanting to fight for every youngling on the streets, children just like him, starving like him, beaten like him. But one child would never be enough, an entire army would not be enough to rid Myr or any Free City of its cruel traditions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient with me and my uploads, uni has been picking up pace (I'm technically in my final bachelor semester), and so finding the time and right mind set for this work has been difficult. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, I try to reply to all of you, and the Kudos as well.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into todays chapter!

# Taj I

The gilded armour of Ser Myles Toyne was glimmering in the bright mid-day sun, as the captain general walked up and down the line of the newest recruits.

Taj straightened, his hands folded together behind his back and followed the movement of the older man with attentive eyes. In the distance, you could see the banners of the Golden Company where they had made camp just yesterday.

The well-trodden path to the first row of tents was only slightly shadowed by the famous dragon trees who bled as red as mankind itself, but Taj did not miss its refuge from the early day heat. Some of the other recruits were fidgeting slightly, their pale skin slowly turning red as the lobsters Taj had fished from the Sea of Myrth.

Ser Toyne passed Taj, nodding to him as he had done to the others but behind him, Taj could see the second in command, Paymaster Harry Strickland, looking in their direction. He had been the one to recruit Taj himself, coming upon him at the central marketplace.

“Here we are” Ser Toyne, now returning to the centre of the line, making Taj turn his head to stay focused on the commander general, “My men have told me of whom they managed to pick up in this fine city, whom they deem a fit for the Golden Company- now you have to prove yourself.”

There was a pause, with only the slightest breeze disrupting the absolute silence. No one moved, dared to breathe, even, while Ser Toyne once more let his hard eyes wander over the row.

“There are only three things I expect from my men: resourcefulness, loyalty and smarts. I don’t care where you hail from, and I don’t expect you to be a blind dog either. You fight for me, and I’ll fight for you. There will be three tasks, and the ones to excel in all three shall swear an oath to the Golden Company. Should one of you be exceptional in one but bad in another, we may consider you as well but fail two and you will not become one of us.”

The line of recruits nodded to signal their understanding.

“The first task is to test your intelligence, how you gather Intel and judge characters you meet. We have a target in this city, someone the Golden Company is contracted to escort to Old Volantis. Do not kill them, for they paid their dues and will arrive in Volantis as demanded. We honour our contracts.”

Taj nodded alongside the other young men.

“You have until midday tomorrow to gather as much information as you can and report back to us, your first lead being” and then Ser Toyne paused as if he expected them to take out a piece of parchment and a pen. Taj could not write, apart from his name. Listen, that he could do.

“A young boy, a eunuch and thief” Ser Toyne said, “That is all you shall receive.”

The line did not move for a moment, until Taj decided to step back and turn in the direction of the city. Near the horizon, Taj could already make out the high white-stone towers and their gilded roofs that stretched higher than anything he had ever seen before.

The harbour, his home, was not far from there. Taj’s worn shoes would not carry him to Volantis, but to Myr they would. A horse raced past him, but he did not care. The rider was making for the Eastern Gates, while Taj traced his steps back the way he had come.

The guards would not let him in, pretending that Myr with all its expensive glass makers and fine laces was a place where only nobles dwelled. They knew that to be untrue but lies sold more wares than the truth.

The walls grew closer, an occasional spy glass glinting in the sun as if they tried to rival the sea for its splendour.

Taj saw another rider speed past, though in a different direction than the first, followed closely by a few others. Apparently a couple of the recruits had formed a bond of sorts, or maybe they had come to enter together?

There were few people, Taj thought, he would bring with him- most of his friends were glad with what they had. A place to rest, some food to eat and something to keep them occupied while they waited for their deaths. Chasing pain, and hunger and the uncertainty of the Golden Company was not what they wanted.

Taj however, he had seen those golden armours when he was a young boy, watching a group of knights stride through the harbour and hearing the clinking of coins from their pouches. He had even stolen such a pouch, to share with his _mu_ _ñ_ _a_ and _mandia._ Both were gone now, and Taj steeled himself while still walking calmly towards the harbour walkway. He missed them each day, and cursed the masters each day, too.

He climbed down a rickety wooden ladder, falling apart after the salty water and the dry winds ripping at it each hour for years now. It led down to another set of wooden planks, nailed together with what the people in the harbour could spare, though that walkway in turn seemed to end in nothing.

But Taj knew this way like the back of his hand, had come and gone through these paths ever since he found out the guards ignored it. When you reached this point outside the walls, you were free to go wherever you wished though Taj himself had always come back. Hunting was good, you could trade the fishes in the bays to the south for more coin and your master may grant you another piece of bread, but staying through the night alone out there was stupid.

Losing your life, or even losing your cot to another desperate soul was no risk Taj wanted to take anymore.

Taj carefully lifted the wooden plating, exposing a set of metal bars leading into almost absolute darkness. The small of decay swept into his nose, but Taj did not flinch, only pulling up a rough shawl over his nose, slipping underneath the plank and into the tunnel.

His eyes quickly got used to the dark, and Taj stopped short of lighting a torch, not wanting to draw attention. After a hundred feet or so, shafts of light broke through gratings underneath the ceiling, accompanied by the noise of a thousand souls clamouring loudly outside.

Taj climbed up a shoulder-height step and saw a few rats scatter excitedly into another tunnel. Shallow water greeted him, as he managed to get up, but then he saw what the rats had been scrambling over. It was a young girl, no older than Taj himself, resting against the walls as if she was sleeping. But Taj had seen death more than once, did not need to step closer to this girl who used to be more than a pile of skin, and bones and hints of flesh.

The anger at the masters burned high in him, the sight of the girl something he had seen too often. Her hair was a fake silver-golden colour, and he knew there to be bruised and scratch and bite marks on her skin. She wore a purple gown, with yellow thread woven through it like she was some high born and not a girl from one of the pleasure houses, dressed up to pretend she was of Valyrian descend so her prize was higher. Had Taj not seen something of the sort almost every month for all his life, he would have vomited up what little he had eaten, would have tried raining down fire and fury on those that wanted to harm the innocent.

Then, however, he would be just as dead as the girl and of what use would that be to anyone. If he was dead, his mother and sister would never be set free.

Taj remembered being young, and wanting to fight for every youngling on the streets, children just like him, starving like him, beaten like him. But one child would never be enough, an entire army would not be enough to rid Myr or any Free City of its cruel traditions. What could an urchin like him do, other than survive? He was no general, no king, no emperor- and he would never want to be.

They were all slaves, in the end, and no one cared to change that fact. Mayhaps, Taj was part of the problem, but after six-and-ten years of being friendlier with the stones around his favourite alcove in the harbour than the feeling of food between his fingers, it was difficult to care.

Those who did care, never came back, abandoning their plight and fancy words as soon as money flowed their way or their throat was slit.

Not too carefully, Taj climbed up a wrought iron ladder into the underground citadel that stretched underneath the entirety of Myr. Apparently, the masters did not give a fuck when their subjects fell into the habit of thieving, some families even encouraging it, being then safe from robbery, forgery and their businesses collapsing on the whim of the thief’s guilds. No one talked about it, Taj knew that the masters would rather the foreigners see the great achievements instead of the syndicates who made these achievements possible.

Some high-up thieves even walked openly across the streets, their identities public secrets and they were often more beloved than even the masters themselves. Every few months, one would be found dead in his manse, though. Killed by a rival, by an underling, or by a master, too.

But, Taj was not interested in their weird schemes and games, though he had been a member of one of the guilds for years- a guild through whose citadel he was now walking, undisturbed. The marking on his sternum, right in between the collar bones, made sure of that- a painful mark to bear, but too useful for Taj to get rid of.

No one talked to him while he walked around the stone made bridges, up a set of stairs and through the building the guild owned, ignoring the sewer entrance not too far from the citadel. They had been used for a long time, before the guilds started expanding, building their own tunnels and places under the streets to avoid the terrible smell and illness. Taj had heard about a weird old man that was proclaiming he wanted to clean the sewage water with plants, but had only gauged the information. If he was lucky, he would be out of this retched city- of his home- before the week was done.

Carefully pulling down the shawl and turning his worn coat inside out, the fancier green now protected and the brown making Taj blend in easier, Taj left the guild house through the front door and made his way across the streets.

A eunuch was what he was looking for, and a thief as well. No one in his guild was a eunuch that he was quite certain of. So, the boy either worked on his own or was part of one of the three other thieves guilds that dominated the different areas: Central market, Nobles or the Livings.

Livings was the friendliest with the Harbour-side guild and so, Taj thought, he should try his luck with them.

Without care, Taj strode up one of the side alleys on the backside of those houses that lined the main street. Trying to hide during the day was dumb, that was the first lesson you learned when entering a guild. The second was looking out for the signs hidden in plain sight, that marked the beginning and ending of territory.

Taj was almost lost in thought, letting his feet carry him to one of the houses that belonged to the Livings guild, but managed to barely avoid a group of priests of R’hllor, in their expensive red robes and bracelets covered in rubies. You were not allowed to rob them or their temples, though Taj had tried to, once.

A young acolyte had stopped him, though, shoving him straight out of the window of her chamber with a scared look in her red eyes. No one should have red eyes that was not natural.

Or purple, for that matter.

Taj shuddered, remembering his sister bending over a bucket of a strong smelling something, her hair turning paler and paler until it was almost white. She needed to look like a Valyrian girl, dropping a vial of something else into her eyes to make them purple. He had held her while she cried through the night and the next day, too.

Their mother had gone blind from that vial of shit, her bald dark head not enough to attract the suitors that had once fathered her children. She had wanted to protect them, Taj knew, but he also knew that she had failed. Now, she was gone alongside his sister- disappearing to please a master of Myr.

The central market drew nearer, but Taj avoided it, not wanting to encounter one of the other recruits. Later, he might spy on them but now he had his own lead to follow.

A curtain chimed to his right, somewhere behind him, and one of the tavern girls giggled at a passerby.

“Would you like some help in polishing that?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.

The man did not answer, and Taj ducked into another entrance, pressing his back to the stone pillar and chanced a look.

Golden armour, elegant cloak and a polished sword. It was another knight of the Golden Company, though Taj did not know the man. He was not very good at following, Taj thought with a smile, staying out of sight and taking the first chance he had to get off the side street and onto the main thoroughfare.

Trampling a bushel of blooming lilies, Taj slipped through a private garden and entered the outer ring of the central market, where the hubbub was loudest even in the earliest and latest hours.

The shop owners yelled and clamoured, and Taj could not help a broad grin, revelling for a moment in their liveliness. He might hate everything this city stood for, that every inhabitant stood for, but there were parts he would always love. The central market was one of them, hiding the dirty secrets and the pain so well, even the slaves could forget them for a second.

At least, until you reached the centre were slaves were sold to the highest bidder.

Taj, however, stayed on the outskirts, and entered a different tavern that belonged to the Livings. It was an outpost, of sorts, tolerated by the other guild in this area and used for trading between them. A good place, Taj thought, and walked up to the bar. Before he made it there, however, he stopped dead in his tracks, watching one of the recruits that had raced into Myr on a horse settle across the pretty bar maid and pulling out his pouch.

The shawl was quickly wrapped around his head, and Taj made for one of the wooden beams exposed by the broken mortar.

“Not in these parts, I’m afraid” the woman said, her face scarred heavily, “We don’t sell out our own.”

“So you know such a man?”

“Hear of him, I did. But nothing more than that.”

The recruit harrumphed, standing up and walked past Taj without seeing him. He also did not see that Taj quickly cut off his coin pouch, catching it before it hit the floor.

Weighing it in his hands, Taj made over to the bar and sat in the exact same chair as the other recruit.

“They give up easy, these posh knights” he said, letting the coins fall on the used wood.

“Not very nice of you, is it?” she asked but her brown eyes glimmered happily, picking up his offer and stashing it under the bar.

Taj shrugged.

“It’s not my job to be nice to them, but I’m looking for the same person. I know he doesn’t work with the Harbour” Taj exposed his marking to her, and she nodded, “And he isn’t famous enough to be a Central Market.”

She shook her head.

“Oh, the eunuch is well known. A youngling, started out not long ago, but you won’t find him in a guild. Works outside them all, but he’s starting to worry the leaders, too.”

“That good?”

Her eyes grew bigger: “Better. Some call him Bird, because he is so quick no one has really seen him. Some say, he was across the Narrow Sea and stole that King’s crown right from his head.”

“Did he steal dragon eggs, too?” Taj rolled his eyes. Some stories were too fanciful even for him. No single man was that good.

“Mayhaps, he did. Do you want repayment for a wrongdoing? Did he hurt the Harbour?”

“No, I’m supposed to find someone to escort back to Volantis for the Company outside the walls.”

“The Golden ones, I see. He’s not in the brothels, that I can tell you. One of the owners came here and wailed about it, loudly, too. Probably not in a tavern too often, either. But that’s all I know.”

Taj nodded slowly.

“Was there a big story lately?”

“Nothing too big, some more murders, a few priests trying to burn people, but nothing new.”

“Thank you for that, though. I’m gonna go.”

She nodded, and Taj went up the stairs, climbing through a window unto a balcony and jumped over a few lower roofs until he touched the streets once more.

Not a guild member, but a damn good thief. If his story had made it into the guild halls and the ears of the leaders, he probably was a serious threat. Maybe he paid to be escorted to Volantis?

Odd choice, the Golden Company.

Maybe not the eunuch thief himself, then. Someone who wanted to get rid of him? But if no one knew him, how would you pay for that? How could you be sure? Eunuchs could be made, too.

Taj tried to shake the feeling, tried not to imagine what it would feel like to get his dick chopped off.

Walking the streets, Taj felt like he was someone else, someone greater with the purpose to save a life. Was there something, he had missed?

A eunuch, a thief and a young boy. Where would someone like that hide themselves? Where would Taj hide?

That question was not hard to answer: as far away from all that knew him. Even the street dogs and stray cats that were friendly to him, not getting to close to those houses filled with children. Everything remembered everything else in these places. No piece of information ever died in these streets, they might not know your name or your history but they could sell what they had anyways. Even if that was nothing. Myr loved its information-traders, their little mice and birds.

Taj let his eyes roam over a few younger children, their thin arms hidden partially by simple rags. The most valuable pieces on the board, the highest card in the deck.

Walking up to one of them, their bright grey eyes staring up at him like he was from across the Narrow Sea. Moving his fingers at the same time as speaking, Taj made his introduction.

The child’s eyes grew bigger, but she did not say a word, instead her fingers moved reflexively.

‘What do you want?’

Slowly, Taj sank to his knees to be at eye level with the little one. The eyes got even bigger, and Taj saw for a moment how she flinched, already gauging the best way to get away. There was a knife hidden on her person, too, Taj knew.

‘I’m looking for someone. Can you help me?’

She hesitated, and once more the recruit reached into the inside of his simple stolen leather armour, she jumped a step away. Taj held a hand up, and slowly pulled the piece of sausage out of its linen wrapping.

‘All for you.’

A shaking hand was stretched out, and closing his own around hers, Taj put the food into hers. Tears swelled up in her eyes, and she stumbled forward straight into his arms.

He could feel her, her nimble fingers trying to find another stash somewhere but it was no matter.

After a few moments, she stepped back once more, the back of her hands rubbing over her eyes.

‘Who are you searching?’

‘A thief, a young one, a eunuch.’

She looked confused, and Taj groaned inwardly. Should he tell her, ruin what little innocence she had left? The sandstone underneath his knees, which he looked at, did not offer an answer.

‘No matter. Whom do you tell what you find out?’

Once more, she hesitated, looking down at her sausages, pressing it closer to her little person.

‘Don’t worry’ Taj quickly assured, the motions almost too hasty to be understood, ‘That is yours to keep.’

She smiled.

‘We call him Westerosi, he has an accent. He stays at the big eastern manse.’

‘Thank you, little one. If you need a place, go to the Harbour. Tell them, Noel sent you.’

Swiftly, Taj rose to his feet and pat the girl on her dirty head before heading off.

The eastern manse was one of the six big, central housings in Myr, owned by the richest bastards in the city. The masters that ran everything within the walls, that decided who lived and who died, liked boasting about the gilded everything there.

As a street rat, Taj would not get through its nice double doors, that much was obvious.

Ambling through the pathways towards the manse, Taj rethought the other pieces of information, the little girl had told him. Thank R’hllor that he had that sausage with him, coin would not have helped.

She told her stories to someone with a Westerosi accent, but someone like that would have raised the attentions of everyone within the achingly bright city walls. Apart from sailors, no one talked like that and even they only ever walked around the harbour and nearby tavernas.

Could it be an act, to increase the curiosity in his business? Did not seem to work, Taj thought.

The problem still stood: how to get in there in the first place?

There was a solution there, Taj knew, but he had hoped to not resort to the last ace up his sleeve quite so early. It never sat well with him, left him feeling exposed.

A woodworker’s shop drew closer and Taj sighed, looking up at the unforgiving sky.

_Valar morghulis._

Slipping through the wooden doors of the shop, immediately hidden in the darkness between barrels and crates, Taj set to work. The leather armour was unlaced as quickly as possible, a true knight would scold a squire for such terrible work, and placed on one of the crates.

Looking down at the breeches with their broad belt, Taj was undecided. Would he get away with them?

Deciding, not to strip down completely in the back of this place, Taj kept them on while rifling through his pack to one of the last remnants his mother had left him. Rolled neatly, like she had taught him, was a simple but sturdy linen underdress and inside that was a dark brown working gown with some brighter burned ochre pieces in between.

With shaking fingers, Taj’s fingers traced over the last piece he needed to rid himself of before he could slip into the clothes.

The strips of once-white linen stood in stark contrast to Taj’s dark skin, the colour of onyx his mother had called it. Taj had never seen such a gem, and his mother had neither, but he liked believing her anyway.

Slowly the linen came undone, the end tucked between his shoulder-blades, and Taj skilfully unravelled the bandage. He had not done so for quite some time, not for this purpose at least.

The strips were rolled into neat bundles, easier to rewrap himself, Taj knew. Letting his fingers run over his skin, Taj was glad that it was so dark.

Looking at one’s own breasts like one had never seen them before, was not useful right now. Not that they were in any way, shape or form special. Taj did not know what he would have done, if he would even still be alive, if they were bigger.

Pulling the dresses own, closing the laces, there was only one thing to be done and soon Taj, the recruit of the Golden Company, would become Noelene once again.

Taj bowed his head around a corner, keeping an eye out for some sort of bucket with water in it. The two men, actual men, stood over their workbenches and carved away at some inlays on a table.

Taj, the skirts now pulled up to his knees, almost danced through the shadows- thankful for the noise of the workshop and the surrounding houses- back to the door. There had to be a central yard for this area, a well in the centre. Myr hated fires within its walls, and had taken measures against them. That also offered perfect side entrances into the thief’s guilds, hidden next to the well and leading always some feet deeper than the water supply. 

Keeping his gaze downturned, clutching at the pack in his arms, Taj made himself smaller while also looking around. No golden armour, that was a good sign.

Turning a corner, Taj spotted the clay and mud made hole in the ground that was used for this corner. The bucket was almost half full, the sand around it wet as if someone had been in a rush to get away.

With both hands, Taj threw the water into his own face, feeling it drip down his forehead, and nose and eyelashes. The darkest patch on the dress was wiped over it, the dark brown soaking up the last remnants of the white warpaint as if it had never been there.

Taj’s heart clenched. His mother had been the one to apply it for the first time, right after his sister had disappeared so long ago. He remembered her crying while tugging the bandages around his chest, while dipping her fingers into the little clay pot to draw around his eyes. She had sung that day, too, almost too low to be heard. A tale of a field in Lys, with flowers and people-high weeds, of people in bright colours, of fierce women and protective men.

Every stroke of white across his cheeks and nose reminded Taj of a verse in that song, remembering them each time he had to retrace the work of his mother.

He had never seen Lys, did not even know whether such a field and such a people were real, but it was more home to him than these city streets.

Rising to his feet nimbly, tugging his bundle into his leather pack on his back, Taj closed his dark eyes as if in prayer.

When they opened once more, looking on the crude signs for the workshops, the figure in the yard was no recruit but instead a young woman of barely six-and-ten in a crumpled dress. Noelene. A girl who did not know her father and mother, who had once had had a sister.

A girl who had not been a girl in almost four years, but that was a secret too precious for anyone but her to know.

Noelene walked almost in the centre of the street, not keeping to the shadows like Taj would. There might be the marking of the Harbour guild between her collarbones, but she was no thief herself, simply the mistress to one of the important men. Noelene was not important, simply running an errand. Mayhaps she was carrying an important missive, concealed threats or a declaration of alliance even.

Mayhaps this girl would begin the war underneath the city without even knowing what she was doing.

Taj tried to focus on these thoughts, on who he was now. It was scary, to think like someone he was not- but someone he could well have been, had life not pushed him somewhere else.

His body was that of a girl, almost a woman grown even, but in his mind, Taj had been a young man for so long he almost forgot what that was even like.

He may not have a dick, but Taj preferred to not think about what lay underneath his clothes. Even his breasts did not feel like they were part of him, mostly ignored and forgotten. There was only one other person outside his family that knew about Noelene, a young priest of R’hllor whose name was never spoken or thought.

His tincture, the ingredients tucked safely in Taj’s head, was always in the same little green vial on his belt. The priest did not ask why his mother needed the tonic, something to reduce the moon blood and deepen the voice. It had even made some hairs grow on Noelene’s face but she had always shaved it like her head, and Taj had continued. Taj had been using, and refilling, the vial since his sister had been gone and now, after all these years, his moon blood was barely more than a trickle.

The liquid tasted disgusting, but strong herbal teas masked it easily, and anyone who asked got the same answer. None. Most people never bothered, anyway, though Taj knew he might need something within the Golden Company. Especially if they tracked him to an apothecary or maester, asking questions.

Noelene turned around, looking over her shoulder, but still there were no signs of golden armour or anyone else. Of course, the young girl would not worry about the Company but instead other guilds or even the guard sworn to protect the city.

The circle drew nearer, its high towers almost reaching through the sky itself, the gilded roofs like beacons in a sea of dirt. Colourful lanterns started hanging from metal posts, though the fire in them was still unlit, and trees lined the cobbled streets. Noelene’s leather clad feet almost made no sound against them, in contrast to a few nobles venturing past whose soles made clacking sounds. They paid her no mind, still.

Large lavender bushes lined the street, their smell intense during the day, and some insects buzzed around it. Some other flowers surrounded it sometimes, but Noelene did not now their names. Taj, though, he could name you what they were called and where to find them outside the city.

A group of three butterflies crossed Noelene’s path and the girl stopped for a moment, watching them dance around her, almost reaching for them but she halted when they finished their circles and settled into another bright flowerbed.

An iron wrought fence, higher than her head, blocked her path. The tips, each depicting a small figurine from one of the important families, were tipped in gold and even flickering gems were inlaid. No thief had ever dared stealing them, an unspoken rule for any member. There were rumours of hidden tunnels leading from each of the central manses to one of the big villas surrounding Myr, so the families could flee if they were ever attacked.

This was no use to Noelene, how should she enter? Especially when talking would make her sound like a young man, that would not convince a guard.

“Can we help you?”

Shrieking slightly, Noelene jumped when one of the armoured me, standing a few feet from her, addressed her. Taj would have simply looked at them, let his gaze sweep over the defences one last time before disappearing down a side street in the opposite direction of the manses.

Noelene was not a thief, just a maid.

From her pouch, she pulled a folded up piece of parchment. Barely more than a scroll, but closed with a fancy purple (magenta, the girl remembered proudly) wax seal. There was even a black Harbour guild ribbon, the symbol embroidered in silver, wrapped around it. Taj had nicked this scroll some time ago, holding unto it like any of his props and Noelene was glad he had some foresight.

The guard took the scroll, looked at the writing though he could not read (both Taj and Noelene recognized that look of trying too hard) and then nodded curtly.

“Go right in, girl.”

Noelene smiled, placing a look of awe in her eyes, trying to let them grow in size like those of the little girl who had given Taj the information. The gates swung open slowly, making no sound, and baring the grandiose marble buildings to the girl’s eyes. She had to bow her head back to be able to see the roofs high above her, the bright banners fluttering from gilded rods over the street.

Even the lanterns were made form coloured glass, the metalwork in the patterns of the famous Myrish laces encasing them like they were precious.

Entering the Circle, Noelene barely dared to breath and watched with even bigger eyes as the gates were closed behind her, locking her in these streets until her business was finished.

Unseen, Noelene smiled and Taj grinned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, leave a Kudos or a comment. Also, if you didn't like it, feel free to comment as well- feedback is much appreciated.
> 
> For your kind consideration, I have a few notes/thoughts/questions that you can use as a summary or pointers for a comment.
> 
> First of all, the new PoV Character, Taj (or Noelene)- **what do you make of them?** I really liked writing them, especially since I have a soft spot for thief-characters (the citadel was very much inspired by Skyrim/Elder Scrolls in general) and offering the perspective of someone who's very much not a noble. There were some (probably not so) subtle digs made towards the Daenerys character arc, I'm not wholly convinced that she will become the saviour of slaves even in the books. 
> 
> Secondly, the introduction to the Golden Company was odd to write. We don't really know much about past events, what values they hold dear (or I forgot, in which case, please go ahead and correct me!) and how they recruit people. **What did you make of my version?**
> 
> In regards to the many substances, f.e. the hair bleach and liquid Taj's sister puts into her eyes to make them purple as well as the vial Taj carries with him, are all pseudo-chemistry and I hope **it was not too much/ too modern**. Especially, the surrogate testosterone was hard to come up with. 
> 
> The official books, as well as AWoIaF, never talks much about the inner-city politics of Myr and the only real PoV we could have from there is Varys. He, understandably, doesn't really talk about it in detail. So, I came up with a city who prides itself on its inventions, riches and culture but in secret is run by the equivalent of the mafia. **Does that fit with the world? What would you add to it?**
> 
> Also, it is probably quite obvious who the Golden Company has to escort to Volantis, or at least it the first lead they let their recruits hunt down. **What do you think about these tasks?** I was torn, since they do seem quite video-game-y but in the end, it seemed a fun way to get to know our PoV.
> 
> And lastly, but most importantly, we had a reveal (which this fandom really loves/hates) in the form of Taj once having been a girl, called Noelene. Their mother started binding their chest and even got the aforementioned "testosterone" from a priest of R'hollor, to protect them from being abducted like their sister. **Was that part of the chapter, and the character itself, well written?** I hope, it was abundantly clear, that Taj is comfortable in his skin and would, in modern times, probably identify as non-binary. Though it was a choice made by their mother, to ensure survival, this is not a criticism of transgender people. (I really hoped, I wouldn't have to explicitly say this since it should be common sense, thanks JKRowling, but:) Trans rights are human rights, and whatever a person feels most comfortable in, or identifies as, is completely valid. Taj was not written as a response to these issues, but rather they developed from my initial Mulan/Joan of Arc character outline, though I will take that as a big positive and do the topic justice if it ever comes up.
> 
> So...that was a lot. Like 2020, everything is involved with everything else and nothing goes quite as planned.  
> The next PoV will be either Elia in Storm's End or Rhaegar, depending on what mood strikes me.
> 
> With that, however, I shall bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	9. Rhaegar II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They start breaking apart, rage against the world itself, and they will look for someone to either take their anger or restore their faith. It need not be faith in the Gods, just merely anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...uhm. It's been a ~ while ~ since I have been here.  
> Uni has been crazy the last weeks, and this chapter in particular was hard to write. My muse was not kind with it, however it gave me time to workshop some ideas and keep moving some parts in my notebook.  
> Hopefully, you still are as satisfied as I am- especially the end was almost cathartic to write. 
> 
> After such a long break, I am anxious to let you read what I have pulled from my (poor, slightly exhausted) brain today. Yes, I deleted several pages and started from scratch, multiple times.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter!

# Rhaegar II

The morning bells of the small septs rang throughout the city, following the example of the small sept inside the Red Keep. Rhaegar, however, had been awake for much of the night and had been able to see the sun rise. He still did not feel tired, excitement coursing through his veins, merely tempered by how nervous Prince of Dragonstone felt.

The Small Council chamber was laid out in front of him, each chair freshly polished by a maid, the well-used cushions still decadent. Rhaegar felt that this room might outlive the kingdom, and the end of time, itself.

Two Valyrian sphinxes stood behind Rhaegar, he was oddly aware of the gaze from their dead, red eyes. As if they judged each person to walk through these doors on the merit of their soul, barring them from entering if need be.

Slowly, Rhaegar made his way to the chair at the head of the long table, letting his fingertips graze over the heavy wood with its dragon inlays. Six chairs, if the Gods had been kinder, Rhaegar might have been able to sit at this table conversing with his siblings. Planning how best to save their family from their father’s madness, each on the search for glory. It was not to be, and Rhaegar sighed inwardly and reached the chair that was usually reserved for his father.

The King.

Pulling it back, the feet lifted off the expensive carpet, the Prince took his seat although it did not feel as if he belonged. It was not uncomfortable per se, the opposite in fact. He would prefer this chair to the entirety of the Iron Throne itself.

The Throne he would have to sit upon in mere hours, to rule justly and competently over the people. His people.

Looking out the carved windows, Rhaegar collected his scattered thoughts. Was it not enough that his reign be overshadowed by that of his father’s cruelty? Should it be plagued by some greater fate?

How should he decide what to do with the time the Gods had allotted him?

The realm was unprepared, on the verge of breaking apart, scattering.

Rhaegar’s fingertips drummed over the table-top incessantly, almost silently but it seemed to echo in his head like an otherworldly contraption, counting the moments of peace left to the heir to the Throne.

Could he not simply get up this very moment, while the keep was resting in this spell, slide through the hidden tunnels beneath the hill and disappear?

Live out his years somewhere else, somewhere peaceful? Mayhaps he would find what he was meant to do in the wilderness in the Seven Kingdoms, a travelling bard?

On their own accord, his fingers found a melody on the wood, practicing as if they were resting against the strings of his favoured harp.

“Your Grace?” a cool voice interrupted his thinking, but Rhaegar remained still.

Looking up, he saw the silhouette of Lord Lannister looming in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. He cut an imposing figure, being mostly lit be the wrought gilded sconces next to the door behind him, every piece of gold on his doublet shimmering.

“Lord Hand, enter. It appears we are both of a like mind.”

Lord Lannister nodded, settling swiftly into the chair to Rhaegar’s right. A hand was engraved into the top of it, denominating it as his.

“A good sign in regards to the upcoming work.”

A bout of silence, in which Lord Lannister fixed Rhaegar with a relentless stare. Rhaegar rested is fingers together, putting more weight on his forearms while leaning over the table in what he hoped to be a regal pose.

“There are several pieces moving at this moment, Lord Hand, the Kingdom is at risk. Our inaction risks the peace we currently revel in.”

“As I am aware, Your Grace. Your father, however, is quite content with what is being achieved.”

“He might be, but it is not his future to bear” he tried to sound calm, not agitated or helpless as he felt, “My family has been plagued by terrible fortune for decades, mostly due to the inaction of those who surround the king.”

“Carefuly, Prince Rhaegar, one would think you are seeking to overthrow your father.”

“That, I have no interest in. Who in their right mind would follow a boy of five and ten when there are more capable leaders at hand?”

A glimmer set into Lord Lannister’s eyes.

“A union would protect both an acolyte and a leader.”

“And yet” Rhaegar paused, collecting his thoughts and keep his body still, “Yet it would not be enough to unite the lands.”

The Hand leaned back, his right elbow resting on the arm rest, the fingers of his right hand coming to lean against hid chin. The young prince was unsure whether he was impressed or hiding his agitation. Knowing Lord Lannister, the latter was more likely.

“An interesting view to take, surely. Is it wise?”

“Options have to be weighed and accounted for. A truly wise decision will prove itself without justification.”

“Your father once was a wise man in his own right, destined for greatness beyond his years.”

“He wished to marry another.”

Rhaegar broke eye contact with the hand, ashamed of himself. The Hand did not answer.

“A union between House Lannister and House Targaryen” the prince found himself saying, continuing. Trying to salvage his dignity from whatever remained of it. It could not be that Lord Lannister be displeased with him, Rhaegar needed this man’s alliance one way or another.

“It would not prove worthy of House Lannister” Rhaegar finished his sentence, getting up from the chair and moving to one of the windows. Anything to put distance between himself and the Hand. He could feel the older man’s gaze piercing the back of his skull.

“Your daughter is doubtlessly an accomplished young woman, but bringing her to King’s Landing, having her roam the pathways of the Red Keep would put her into danger. Not even my protection would be enough. You know my father, Lord Lannister.”

Finally, Rhaegar found the strength to turn around and face the Hand once again.

“I have heard rumours of what he has done to your late wife, I know what he does to my mother. Not even the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the royal family, would step between the King and his…rights. Lady Cersei is said to look like her mother, a mirror image- beautiful, graceful. Consider what living here, with my father looming ever above, would turn her into.”

Grasping at any words to impress unto Lord Lannister that it was in his own best interest, not merely his own, Rhaegar’s mind raced through his mother’s advice.

“She would soon be considered nothing more, and nothing less, than the King’s mistress. A very young one, but nonetheless, her name would be tarnished and her becoming my wife…it would not happen. She would suffer, and with her House Lannister in its entirety.”

A knock resounded through the small room, and through the open door, Grand Maester Pycelle entered. He had clearly heard the last sentences of their conversation, and Rhaegar was quite sure he had been lurking in the gallery that lead to the Small Council Chamber for some time.

“Your Grace, my lord. Word has been delivered from Storm’s End this morning” he took a few scrolls from the inside of his sleeves, “The court has left and are expected to return within days, as per Lady Baratheon herself.”

He placed the scrolls as he sat down on Rhaegar’s other side, the parchment now resting in between the Hand and Rhaegar waiting to be taken and read. Lord Lannister made a motion and Rhaegar reached for the one with the sigil of House Tarth pressed into vivid blue wax. A rose coloured silk band was wrapped around.

His eyes wandered over the message in a hurry: “It seems, one of my cousins has married, Lord Astraeon Tarth. Another proposal has been issued as well, and the family seeks the approval of the Crown for it to go ahead.”

Rhaegar looked up into the uninterested faces of the men around him: “A Ser Emmerich Hasty seeks the hand of Lady Ostaera Tarth, the family approves and I see no reason to not give them the crown’s blessing.”

“Hasty?” the Grand Maester coughed, “A lowborn family.”

“Do you disapprove?” Rhaegar asked.

“Such a man, a landed knight, is not worthy of the Targaryen lineage. Lady Tarth should…”

Rhaegar raised a hand, the Grand Maester silenced at once.

“The marriage practices of House _Tarth_ are not of concern to the Crown, Maester Pycelle. They are free to wed whomever they deem appropriate, and if Ser Hasty has proven himself, he is worthy of the Targaryen blood.”

Lord Lannister, too, waved the argument away. Had Lady Ostaera written herself, Rhaegar pondered, and asked for the marriage to be stopped, he would have considered it. Now, she was destined to live a happy life far from the Red Keep’s politics and Rhaegar envied her.

A landed knight, an achievement for a man.

“I shall write to House Tarth and congratulate them on their unions anon.”

Breaking another seal, this time from Lord Baratheon himself, Rhaegar had to re-read the contents of the letter three times ere he dared to speak.

“It…it appears” he furrowed his brow, “A Sword of the Morning has stepped forward during the Tourney. Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“Does he wield the sword?”

“Indeed, Lord Lannister, Dawn is in his possession and Lord Baratheon and his blacksmith attest the legitimacy. Ser Arthur is riding with the court, accompanying a small Dornish delegation, to present himself and swear fealty to the Crown.”

“We should ask of his aspirations, such a capable fighter cannot wander the lands of Dorne” Maester Pycelle exclaimed, almost lively. The insult to Dorne was clear in his tone, though Rhaegar hid his distaste for the old man’s opinions behind indifference.

“A place in the Kingsguard will become vacant sooner rather than later” Lord Lannister agreed, “We would do well to have such a man sworn to the royal family. It could ensure the Dornish in their loyalty, as well.”

The Sword of the Morning.

Dawn.

A flaming sword.

Yes, Rhaegar agreed. It would do well to talk to this knight, gauge his character.

“He won the melee at the Tourney, according to Lord Baratheon, defeating Prince Oberyn in the last bout in a show of prowess heretofore not seen in the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. Swift, and graceful” Rhaegar read, “Lord Baratheon has talked to the man in private, as well, and assures of his sense of honour.”

“Fine qualities for a man of the Kingsguard.”

“Lord Baratheon also writes that his eldest son is now on his way to the Eyrie of Arryn, to foster with Lord Eddard Stark under Lord Arryn. A long way away from Storm’s End and Winterfell.”

Lord Lannister settled into his chair: “The men have been in contact ever since the War, Your Grace, friendships of great men have always flourished best when supported by the younger generations. Were it not for the Queen’s…ill fortune, you yourself would have been sent off to a loyal vassal.”

The implication, that Rhaegar was supposed to have been raised on Casterly Rock was clear in Lord Lannister’s voice. The Prince was unsure if he would have wanted to be raised there. He may well have turned out to be the most competent leader of past generations, or he would have become a warmongering ruthless monster. There seemed to be no in-between with Lord Lannister.

“Well, let us hope that great friendships will be forged between these young boys. Will your son be fostered, too, Lord Hand?”

“When he is old enough, he shall be a squire to a capable knight.”

Rhaegar nodded, and knew there to be a request within the words. It would not be unwise to take on young Jaime Lannister as his personal squire in a few years, appease Lord Lannister and gain another confidant. Though that would require, Rhaegar be knighted.

Oh, how he missed Jon at this very moment. The younger boy was currently visiting his father in Griffin’s Roost since the man had taken ill. He was not due to return for weeks yet, his disposition much needed.

It left Rhaegar to face Ser Arthur Dayne on his own.

Looking up the stairs of the Iron Throne made Rhaegar’s heart stop. Never mind the fact he had sat upon it for the past five days, it still left him restless.

Ser Barristan stood next to him, quite used to the Prince’s antics. Rhaegar was grateful for his silent assurance, almost fatherly in a way he did not know he needed.

Sighing, balling and relaxing his tense hands, Rhaegar strode up the cold steel steps. They were uneven in make, worn out by centuries of use. His cape almost caught on one of the stray blades, but Rhaegar billowed it out of the way in what he hoped to be an elegant, regal motion.

Apart from the Kingsguard, no one was present, yet it mattered. Pulling down his doublet, he turned and sat himself down on the little chair, not daring to sink further back. The small mould in the centre of the seat did invite someone to do so, yet the Crown Prince did not dare to give into this temptation. Some distinctive Valyrian swords were awaiting him, to get revenge for their families by slicing the neck of the youngest Targaryen.

How the bards would laugh and sing, if the family were to die not because of poison, or a great battle or invasion but instead by hubris. Felled by their own creation, their own kingdom.

Would his death be enough for his father to destroy the Throne?

Unlikely.

The Small Council stepped through its designated doors, quite scarce in numbers and Rhaegar thought about the many people one could assign to these positions were it up to him. The master of whisperers was yet not called upon, none having been called to it ever since Brynden Rivers vacated it nigh on half a century ago.

There was Lord Qarlton Chelsted, master of coin, and a man who wore a frown more often than not. He often wore an expression of deep thought, the wrinkles in his forehead so pronounced they stayed even when he was drunk or laughing. Once, he had told Rhaegar, he had been on the path to becoming a maester, much more inclined towards using numbers and equations then the mace and dagger on his coat of arms. He bowed before Rhaegar, his white and green coat swishing to the floor, and took his place next to Lord Lannister.

The two men seemed amicable, if not friendly, and their discussions could be heard for hours into the night. Rhaegar valued Lord Chelsted’s council greatly, his intelligence and empathy welcome when surrounded by those less so.

Another man Rhaegar held a higher respect for after each Small Council meeting these past days, was the master of laws. Lord Symond Staunton of Rook’s Rest. He was stocky, with long brown hair and scars littered across his arms from the War. Were you to look at him, always clothed in grey steel plate armour, you would think him an earnest person. He complemented Lord Chelsted well with his easy smiles, however, and an unwavering interest in seeing the best in a person.

How he had managed to become master of laws, and stay in such a cruel office with Aerys as his king, Rhaegar did not know. He often joined him and the knights of the kingsguard for a sparring session, eager to learn even at his age. Lord Staunton’s criticism always rung true within Rhaegar, finding a weakness the Prince did not know he had had. Now, after having worked with the man, Rhaegar could see why a powerful figure would seek to do so.

The only member of the small council, Rhaegar definitively despised was Lord Lucerys Velaryon. His name sounded grandiose, spoke of richess and once Rhaegar would have assumed a man of Valyrian blood to be as such. Lord Velaryon, however, had not bettered his image. He often spoke about how the King should assume his position once again, ignoring Rhaegar during the meetings and even talking over him.

The Crown Prince did not think of himself as petty, but Lord Velaryon certainly fostered such behaviour and he would be replaced at the first chance Rhaegar had. Lord of the Tides he may be, yet his wife Lady Sereia certainly was more deserving for she was able to hold an actual conversation. Rhaegar found himself almost blushing as he remembered the lady’s winsome smile during last night’s supper. To have such a woman for a wife, and still become as cold as Lord Velaryon was an accomplishment in and of itself.

The grand doors to the Throne Room were opened by a set of guards in armour, blending into the shadows behind the pillars effortlessly. It would be quite easy, Rhaegar thought, to sneak into these halls and kill anyone who grieved you.

Even the wooden rafters up above were not safe, for Rhaegar had once seen a small urchin clamber around with what looked like a rag for cleaning. A well-aimed arrow or bolt would be enough.

A shiver made its way down his spine as he watched the great number of lords and ladies who had returned from Storm’s End this morning, babbling and chatting loudly and laughing. A few younger ladies, some arm in arm with one another, some with young men, came towards the Throne to courtesy. Rhaegar smiled, waving at opportune moments and allowing them their innocent charades.

Most of them dreamed of becoming a Princess or Queen, who was he to be cruel when faced with it? Having his own hopes shattered, his aspirations long buried next to his little siblings, was enough and indulging their giggling for another day was harmless.

Two younger children, both clothed in gold and crimson, with golden hair and green eyes he could see from this distance, approached and said their greetings.

Rhaegar nodded: “Welcome, Lady Cersei, Lord Jaime. I hope you have had a pleasant journey and are well.”

Although phrased like a question, an answer was not expected, and the two children found their way back into the crown. Most likely to gather compliments and praise from their Septa and other enchanted ladies. Mayhaps even a lord or two who wanted to ingratiate themselves with Lord Lannister. Pieces on a board.

Finally, after almost an hour the court had settled, behaving as if they had not seen one another for the entirety of the Long Night.

Did Northmen behave in such a way? Unlikely, to waste daylight by exchanging pleasantries would not do.

Another figure, followed by a small entourage in splendid oranges, reds and yellows, made its way through the crowd. The other courtiers easily moved out of their path, whispering in each other ears. The man was the only one with a blade in these halls, apart from the Kingsguard, and more than one other lord seemed put-out by such behaviour.

Rhaegar leaned forward, eyes now solely focused on the knight approaching the marble steps that separated the Throne from the hall.

“Your Grace, Prince Rhaegar” he called out, his voice quite deep and holding the attention of the silenced court at once, “I have come here to swear my vows as Sword of the Morning to the ruler of my home.”

“You will find the King unable to receive you. The passing of my younger brother has brought about a time of grief and contemplation for my father.”

“As a member of the royal family, and future King, may I swear to you in his stead?”

“If your oath permits it, Ser Arthur.”

He nodded and, with a slow yet still practiced motion, the two-handed sword was pulled from the scabbard. The fire in the sconces shimmered across it, catching in perceived ridges like glass, and the blade seemed made of such a material, too. Brittle, light and deadly.

As Ser Arthur, with his silver gold hair and piercing purple eyes knelt on the red marble, baring his neck to Prince Rhaegar, the Sword held aloft like a mere offering, Rhaegar had the strangest thought.

He had indeed something akin to this sword before, not in its current purpose, but the resemblance was striking.

His mother’s favourite crown, one that had been fashioned for Naerys Targaryen upon her coronation- the first and only time the young Queen ever wore the crown, had the very same shimmer in its depths. It was made, according to the stories his father used to tell him when he was still a child, from frozen fire. Obsidian.

How such a material could be white like milk and be used as a sword, Rhaegar did not know. His eyes followed the delicate lines and patterns in the blade as it was held in Ser Arthur’s hands.

Then the young knight spoke and Rhaegar found his attention forcefully ripped as another memory came to his mind.

_“Day breaks, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall commit neither atrocities, nor murder and never plot bewrayment. I shall not be cruel, but give mercy unto those that ask for mercy. I am the sword in the darkness, the light that brings the dawn. I pledge my life and honour to the Grave of Kings, for this day and all the days to come.”_

Ser Arthur stayed kneeling for another moment, as Rhaegar allowed the moment to take, and to calm the beat of his own nervous heart, ere he stood and walked down the steps.

Walking and talking was not easy when faced with the steps of the Iron Throne, and so Rhaegar halted when the words of his answer allowed for it. Hopefully it seemed self-assured rather than afraid to those around him.

“Rise, Ser Arthur. I, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen, hereby witness your oath and affirm your title as Sword of the Morning.”

Ser Arthur stood, Dawn now resting gently with its tip against the stone.

The two of them stared into one another, and in those purple eyes Rhaegar found the same determination, the same hope he felt within himself. Mirroring, echoing.

“I am honoured, Your Grace.”

“The honour is mine, Ser Arthur, please accept this mantle as a token of the crown’s reverence of your achievements. Furthermore, the Small Council would grant you a place in the Kingsguard if you wish to take it upon its vacancy.”

“I would take such an offer, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar let out an imperceivable breath, as Ser Arthur bowed and once more found his way into the shadows. While court once more resumed mumbling, exchanging doubtlessly scandalous rumours about them, Rhaegar strode up the stairs once more. A much less dignified exit from this scene than he had anticipated, and he could feel his cloak catch on more than one blade. His spine felt weird, almost as if he was walking with a hunch, and the prince was quite glad when he was seated again. Less danger of falling down.

He was mayhaps good at dancing, tumbling not so much- what a terrible end to meet, though entertaining for generations to come.

Mere breaths after he was seated, a young maiden strode forward and curtsied. Rhaegar had not seen her earlier, though that did not account for a lot.

“Your Grace, I have come here to seek refuge from my family and the protection of the royal family.”

“My lady,” Rhaegar implored, his eyes now focusing solely on her and trying to ignore the murmurs from the crowds, “Pray, what aid do you seek?”

She was dressed in simple clothes, a dark amber gown made from fine wool or cotton. A white robe peaked over the hem, and Rhaegar tried not to linger on the bowed cord resting at the centre of her bodice.

“My mother has sent me to King’s Landing to join the Silent Sisters, against my wishes, because of…” the young woman, small but capable breathed heavily in obvious agitation, “A prophecy. She told me, she saw the demise of my blood at the hands of the one I was to marry.”

The whispers in the crowd rose.

“I know of no _‘men with the heads of wolves, ravaged at a feast where savaged limbs clutch bloody cups.’_ and thus wish to be the smith of my own fortune.”

“What is your name, my lady?” Rhaegar asked, the words gruesome and foreboding, but he agreed with the girl nonetheless. Only one family, he knew of, was likened to wolves and House Stark would not stand for such a terrible fate.

“Jeyne Westerling, your Grace. Daughter of the Lord and Lady of the Crag in the Westerlands” she sought out Lord Lannister who did not react to her statement in any fashion.

As she got no answer, her intense brown eyes came to rest on Rhaegar once more, judging him. Did she find him wanting?

“Lady Jeyne” Rhaegar began, “Do you put faith in prophecies?”

“No, Your Grace. I will not have them dictate the life given to me.”

If you had no choice, my lady,- Rhaegar wondered- would your words be the same?

“Well then, my lady. I hereby release you from your mother’s verdict of becoming a Silent Sister. You are free to choose your fate as you see fit. I wish you good fortunes on your way.”

She curtseyd again, not saying anything. Rhaegar smiled.

He dearly hoped, she would find her path, her freedom. Where she would be going next? Hopefully somewhere where neither meddling mothers nor gruesome feasts with wolves awaited her.

An elderly man with a grim face stepped up next. He asked for leniency for his son, currently imprisoned in the Black Cells- unlawfully, it seemed. The true perpetrator who had robbed the establishment (Rhaegar nodded along as if he was very aware about every facet of his bid) had been apprehended by the Gold Cloaks. He proffered a sealed scroll, Lord Commander Hightower took and opened it.

“He speaks the truth, Your Grace. The thief has been brought to justice. What shall become of the man’s son?”

“Release him, Lord Commander, at once. He will be brought into a quiet, private chamber where his father, clean clothing and food will await him. Should he seek recompense, he shall be allowed to enter the services of the gardener and earn his coin with honest work.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!” the man whisper-shouted, his wobbly knees giving way and he sank to the floor in clear relief. As a member of the Keep guards helped him up, he bowed the entirety of his way out. 

Others followed, peasants, priests and pompous panjandrums alike, filling the hours until sunset with discussions, and even a bout of fainting, and Rhaegar found himself gripping the Iron Throne itself as if it was his last tether to this plane.

Everyone seemed unable to do what they were asked, or used and abused by someone who dared to assume power they did not wield. How was it allowed? How could lords hols such influence and demand nothing less than inhumanity from their subjects?

As the last person was lead from the hall, the doors closing, Rhaegar still rested high above the members of the Small Council and Kingsguard. Tiredly, he let his head sink into his hands. It was pounding, almost as if demanding his thoughts escape.

Closing his eyes, he could see their faces circling in front of him still, their pained voices asking for a loved one (whom his father had executed) or mercy, for money, for more time. For a cure to a disease, for a prayer on their upcoming wedding day. For a blessing for a dying child. Settle this land dispute, grant revenge.

It seemed to never end.

“Rhaegar” a voice called out, and he lifted his head and saw his mother waiting at the foot of the stairs.

On shaking legs, clutching another sword hilt to catch himself, Rhaegar made his way down to her. She seemed to sense his mood, making a simple motion to make him follow her outside through a side door. He found himself focusing on her crown, she was not wearing Naery’s anymore except for important occasions. Her husband did not like it, finding it too crass and strong for a Queen.

Rhaegar shuddered. He had heard about the cruelties committed against a woman, a prostitute from a renowned brothel, whose corps had been found in the streets. She had been dead for at least two weeks, missing for an entire moon turn. It had not been a quiet, peaceful death for her, according to the Gold Cloaks who had reported back from the Silent Sisters.

Rhaegar had wanted to vomit, yet it was not proper.

They finally reached the parlour that lead to the garden alcove his mother favoured, looking over the Sea down below, vines and green leaves overshadowing it beautifully. Roses from Highgarden, sent as a wedding gift for Rhaella, guarded its entrance. Mayhaps that was why his mother regarded the Tyrells so well, their presents hid her freedom from prying eyes.

Turning around, Rhaella at once engulfed Rhaegar into a tight embrace, and though he had not expected it, the prince found himself sinking into it.

“You were a good ruler, Rhaegar. None of these things are your fault.”

“How…how can it be stopped? All of it? Girls being…raped and mutilated, and men killed for nothing? Children starving while we live in this…thing?”

His voice broke.

“We will find a way, and you will, too. Do not let this break you. It did not happen because of you, though now it is our task to prevent it.”

He stepped back, sitting on one of the benches.

“You are young, Rhaegar. And of a good heart, a sound mind.”

“Why is mankind made of such cruelty?”

She sat next to him, taking his hand in hers. Her other one, adorned with intricate rings, came to rest against his face, forcing him to look at her. Her thumb brushed away some stray tears that had made their way down.

“That is a question only the Gods can answer, and I am sure even they are appalled at what their creation has wrought.”

She smiled kindly, her eyes so much like his own but with Valyrian steel hidden underneath. His mother had passed through fire, and had come out of it with a strength Rhaegar aspired to possess.

“When such ill, such…destruction and horror- when it befalls a family, or even a single person, faith in their Gods starts crumbling to dust. They start breaking apart, rage against the world itself, and they will look for someone to either take their anger or restore their faith. It need not be faith in the Gods, just merely anything” Rhaella explained, calmly.

He only waited for a single breath before asking what his heart wanted to know.

“And what do you have faith in now?”

She laughed, looking decades younger. Crinkles by her eyes, seen so seldom, brought out the softness in her features. Rhaegar wished he were as skilled a painter as Rhaella herself, that he might catch this likeness of her on paper. If there ever was a statue to be commissioned for her, it should be of this very moment. Her eyes sparkling, a breeze catching in her silken hair and her laughter ringing out over the gardens.

“Is it a funny question?” he grinned, like the boy he still was, and she smiled at him.

“Not outright, merely my answer sounds quite self-centered. But, take it as the lesson I need it to be. There have been and always will be those who seek to break us. To take what we hold dear, rip it from underneath our fingertips, to twist it into a grotesque caricature of what it used to be. A loved one turns into…something beyond saving. In truth, trust in anyone or anything becomes more difficult with each passing day. To find something that keeps you on your feet, not your knees.”

As if to emphasize her point, Queen Rhaella rose from her seat, their hands parting, and she turned to face the ocean. She did not meet his gaze, her face stony once more, betraying no emotion.

“A legend, nay a myth, grabbed hold of my life and changed my destiny forever. It was not a fate I could escape, and I held my head up high for every moment of every day. For the longest time, there was only myself to depend on. Only I could become a saviour to myself, so that is what I became. I refused to be a mere pawn in the hands of those who play with life like toys. A Queen I was called, and a Queen I became. So, you ask in what I have now? The answer is simple, and you should adhere to it, too: Myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.   
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment. Feedback is much appreciated, if worded as constructive critisism.  
> I know, Taj's chapter was a bit divisive but that's what we're here for. 
> 
> I am also aware, that this chapter in particular has the feeling of a "filler" chapter. Nothing new is revealed, but it was important to me to get Rhaegar as he is now correct. At least, my version of it. 
> 
> He faces challenges that, to me, equate to those of Robb Stark: a position of power he is not quite sure if he is fit for. Except, instead of the shining example of leadership, loyalty and honour that was Ned Stark, Rhaegar has the deck stacked against him. On his first day, he is confronted by Tywin- as we witness here. **Did you think the exchange did Tywin justice** They are both somewhat aware of their situation, a razor's edge. Rhaegar knows, appealing to Tywin's love for his children won't work, so he tries using Cersei's name (not her dignity etc) as an esxcuse. **Do you think it was wise to almost threaten Tywin in such a manner?**
> 
> Pycelle chooses this very opportune moment to burst into the room and deliver some letters. The first real acknowledgment of the Targaryen line on Tarth is made in the capital, and we learn that Emmerich and Ostaera are seeking a betrothal. **Unexpected? What do you anticipate in regards to this union vs what you know from the tags?**
> 
> Arthur is also well on his way to join the Kingsguard, and Rhaegar has an epithany. From canon, we assume/know that Arthur was Rhaegar's truest friend. Even held above Jon Connigton (whom I always tend to forget about for some weird reason). **What do you expect from their relationship in this Fic? How would Elia fit into this scheme?**
> 
> We witness Rhaegar's session in court, ruling in his father's stead and get introduced to some major players in this generation's game: The Small Council. They have not yet entered the limelight, but they are ready to take centre stage once Ostaera arrives. However, **what are your thoughts on the court scene? Did I manage to capture some of the atmosphere?**
> 
> Initially, my plan was for Arthur and Rhaegar to meet during a sparring session and get them to be "bros". Then it didn't fit with the general outline, and I ended with this more formal setting instead. **Would you be interested in a more relaxed environment next time?**   
> I also know, that in canon there most likely does not exist an oath for the Sword of the Morning. On the other hand are there so many parallels/metaphorical mirrors with the North and Dorne that I could not resist. Thus, the words clearly echo those of the Night's Watch but almost in reverse. I also used the Pentecostal Oath of the Knights of the Roundtabel for enhancement. **Did you like this addition or was it too cheesy? What do you think is the Grave of Kings referenced?** (Also: Dawn and dragon glass?)
> 
> The session continues, we meet a Westerling girl named Jeyne I made up who talks about her mother and her weird prophecies, and wanted to run from what she wanted for her. **Did you appreciate this canon-reference? Are you, generally, interested in what becomes of this particular Lady Jeyne?**
> 
> And lastly, we have another conversation with Rhaella (who is my personal favourite thus far) in the gardens. Rhaegar is facing a mental breakdown, and she seeks a way to build him up again. Her speech was a mixture of what Daenerys says upon first meeting Jon, things I wished people would have told me when I was down and the song "Heart of Stone" from the Musical Six (well worth a watch/listen). **What is your opinion on Rhaella's small monologue?**
> 
> Now, the questions are done, and I need to do some obligatory rambling. 
> 
> As I stated at the beginning of this chapter, uni has been kicking me around the playground like a football- mostly without relent. I have been facing an increasing number of existantial crisis, panic attacks and imposter syndrome for the last months. It's been tough to keep it together, and I want to deliver the best I can offer to you- I know this is just Fanfic, but for me its a legitimate writing exercise and I enjoy being pedantic with this. I enjoy the head-space too much, and I don't want to bring less than I am able to bring to this table. It's what I live for. That being said, I know that this chapter is not what I intended it to be and what you wanted.  
> Most of you probably expect Ostaera to be thrown into the fray, and to that I can say: **Next update**. Stuff's going to go down, hard. That is a promise I am keeping, since I am looking foward to that as much as you are.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy. Go dring some water, call your best friend and take a walk.
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	10. Ostaera III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cursed be he who seeks to tear them asunder_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,  
> This upload was in quite quick succession to my last chapter. But it is the most important plot point up to date, so I wanted to get it done in due time. I only took one hundred pages of exposition to get here, so yeah. 
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter.

# Ostaera III

The evening sun was creeping over the startlingly blue sky, rays breaking through the dense canopy of leaves and blossoms above. A light breeze drifted through them, rustling the branches and carrying the smells of the forest and meadows through the broad path that was Wendwater Crossing.

Seated on the grass of their garden, Osteara smiled as she watched Lorelei and Adolar run after a pair of shimmering butterflies. Viorel sat next to her, a crown of flowers braided throughout her hair and watched the two younglings, too.

Sinking back onto the blanket where their shoes and a wooden basket were resting safe from instects, Ostaera watched as Lorelei lost her balance and tumbled almost headlong into a fern. As her daughter seamlessly got up once more, her head of curly brown hair appearing over the large leaves, she was not worried.

She remembered when the twins were born, how afraid she had been. Ever since the maester of Wendwater Crossing had confirmed her hopes, she had lived with that fear and it had proven entirely without reason. They were healthy children, her daughter with gleaming blue eyes, her son almost an exact likeness of his father and maternal grandfather in one.

Smart, too, by all accounts.

Viorel put down her book, she was learning how to tell stories properly for the twins were unwilling to go to bed if not told a story, and marked its page. In the basket, the bodice of the woman’s wedding dress was waiting to be finished and yet the women had not begun the task on this fine day.

“Has Serah spoken with you about the travelling merchant she employed for this year’s harvest?”

Ostaera nodded: “Indeed, she showed me some of the numbers she had gotten from the man, prizes he could sell the wood and grain for in bigger cities or homesteads. But I am unconvinced, yet. The people upstream depend on what we can offer them in return for their goods, this venture…it may proof profitable for our homestead, but we shan’t disregard our neighbours.”

“We could pay them more gold?”

“Mayhaps. This Reach- merchant is more used to silks and roses, if I were to guess, and trusting him with this less refined labour might make us the laughing stock.”

“You are quite sure in your opinion” Viorel laughed, her head turned to one side to keep an eye on Adolar as he disappeared around a bend. Loud laughter of a child rung out not a moment later, the high squealing bringing a smile to Ostaera’s face and heart.

She knew what this sound meant, and as she had hoped, her dear husband stepped around the corner hidden by bushes with his son dangling in his arms. Emmerich, a hat pushed back from his sweat soaked hair, and a dampened linen shirt haphazardly tucked into a pair of worn breeches, made his way over to the two women with a certain spring to his steps.

Lorelei, too, came running over, calling out for her father and wrapping her arms around his legs so tightly he could move her while walking. Osteara stood up, with less grace than she would admit to her lady mother, and bent down slightly to greet him with a kiss.

Even after years, even after two children, such a small thing still sent shivers down her spine. Were his arms not filled with their son, he would have grasped her waist and pulled her closer, yet he stepped back and offered his elbow for her to take.

“Shall we take our supper?”

“Yes, Mattis and Janina have been accepted our offer, and we have heard them arguing for most of the afternoon about the seating arrangements.”

Emmerich grinned, a glimming in his eyes signalling an appreciation for the way she let her finger trace over the muscles of his upper arm. Ostaera tried, not to blush but it was no use. Her husband grinned once more, setting Adolar down to let him chase ahead into their home.

Stepping through the wooden fence (which needed a repair quite desperately) and up the stairs, they were met with an open door. Wendwater Crossing was so far off from any other community, and so small, too it resembled Evenfall Hall to a certain degree. Not in grandeur or splendour, but it was a family. Leaving one’s door open, letting the children run wild through the gardens without worry and even coming together each day for a supper had made Ostaera feel at home from the moment she had stepped foot into this place.

The window shutters of her home, a small abode with one story and a thatched roof, were painted a gleaming turquoise- a wedding gift to her by Emmerich. Even small suns and moons had been carved around the door, though apart from her maiden cloak which hung like a tapestry in their children’s room, nothing of Tarth truly remained.

Helping Viorel carry a bucket of water from the stream that ran behind the house, Ostaera sat down on the bed to watch as Emmerich wrangled off his shirt with some issue. His skin, and hers too, had become more tan than ever before. During one of their more private moments, when Viorel had left the house with the twins to visit her betrothed a few feet away, Emmerich had confessed he liked the way her fingers now were not as perfect as they had once been.

After having felt what bruised fingertips felt like on her skin, Ostaera was inclined to agree with him.

She took Emmerich’s discarded shirt and breeches and left the room to place them in another water basin. Her self-made soap, which had taken quite some time to get right, rested next to it on a wooden shelf. Not too far from it, the small kitchen was set, a fire place with some stone-made tables nearby. On Ostaera’s hand, scars both old and new (and thus faint and pronounced) from hot oil, or hot water or even simple knife mishaps were showing up.

She was proud of these scars, though. As proud as of the dots of ink on her linen chemise after many a knight of counting stock and doing some calculations. Old Christoffer, the maester and only person in Wendwater Crossing who had been able to read and write for generations now, had been quite glad when Ostaera offered to help.

Old Christoffer was not as old as Ostaera had anticipated, of age with her own father if not younger but his quite white air and missing eye gave off the appearance of old age. He had hated being a maester, more interested in the details of brewing ale than education, but he was a good man nonetheless.

He also did not like children, and mostly pretended as if Lorelei and Adolar did not exist. Apparently, at least according to the elderly Genevie the only child he had ever liked was Emmerich himself, though the Hasty tried and failed to pretend to not be proud of the fact.

As Ostaera pulled the white shirt over a washboard, the water quickly spilling over her dress, and began rubbing the soap bar across it, Emmerich strode down the stairs while rolling his shoulders. After watching her for a moment, he walked over and wrapped his arms around her to pull her close. The moment of quiet was disrupted by the twins.

“Mum, can we go?” Lorelei exclaimed, already halfway out the door by the time Ostaera had grabbed a towel to dry her hands and follow her out. Lorelei let out a giggle as she ran away, and Ostaera gave chase.

Mother and daughter made their way, once more, through the small gate and onto the main street where Lorelei made a strikingly swift right turn. Clover, the dog of Old Christoffer, came barking and with a wildly wagging tail out of the doorway to the man’s home and took after Lorelei as well.

Ostaera halted when the set of tables and benches came into view, cut and dried flowers were arranged in the centre and on each table the offerings from each household in the Crossing had been placed. Delftware and clay cups and plates, each embellished with hand-drawn designs, were laid out and Janina was currently in the process of placing down some larger knives. As the town butcher, and wife to the best huntsman, she owned the most beautiful cutlery and was not shy of showing them each evening.

Swiftly, most likely awakened by Clover’s loud barks and the increasing sounds of children making up games, the twenty seats filled.

Emmerich and Ostaera were sat next to Viorel and the man who would soon marry her, the woodsman Bowen Stormare and opposite from the large family of millers with their five children. Ostaera managed to catch her son around the waist as he sped fast and talk him into settling down for the evening while her daughter was creeping beneath the table to pet Clover one last time.

As jugs and bottles of water and wine were passed around the table, the humming of bees and wasps breaking out of the twittering of birds, the first lids of the various dishes were lifted and an almost overwhelming mixture of smells wafted through the warm air.

It was no matter to Ostaera that they ate almost the same meals each night, every family bringing what they had in their home over. There was a variety of spiced meats from Mattis and Janina, mushrooms in salads and pot-roasted from Bowen and Viorel, fresh bread from the day’s work from the Catherin and Jon. Ostaera had grown up with fish and mussels, and yet she found herself not missing it.

The rare day Mattis and his son had hunted a stag, the entire Crossing had come together to offer their best- with special wood from Bowen and rare spices and herbs from Serah- and they had sat around the spit-roast for most of the night.

“Ostaera, have you had word from your sister yet about our water?” Genevie asked from the other side and Ostaera found herself leaning around a laughing Viorel to answer.

“Not yet, sadly. I expect the message to arrive in a few days, knowing my dear sister.”

The village had been suffering a bout of illness a moon turn ago, all getting sick yet nothing had been found out. Their suspicion lay with the water from their spring, but even Old Christoffer was undecided. Consulting his various tomes and scrolls in a hidden chest had not yielded any result apart from the sound advice to not drink said water.

Some, especially the boys, had ignored the warning until the day Clover had been sick. That, to Ostaera’s amusement and (quite honestly) shock had been the line for these rowdy children who were mere years younger than her husband.

Emmerich, though evidently still missing his wandering days, had adapted to his new profession of cutting down trees for the Crossing’s sawmill. He also taught the younger ones how to wield bows, axes, spears and swords while Ostaera had taken it upon herself to teach them how to stitch clothes, read, count and write. Even the boys were attentive when handed a needle, most likely because it impressed the few girls in Wendwater Crossing and the surrounding villages.

As the dishes emptied over the evening and wine started flowing, Robin Miller brought out his lute and started playing some of his own tunes on it- simple and without words attached to it, and some haphazard dancing broke out while the children started chasing each other once more through the gardens between the homesteads.

Darkness broke over them, stars twinkling in the clear sky above like pearls in velvet and Ostaera leaned into Emmerich as they swayed for a calm moment.

“Are you happy, love?”

Ostaera smiled, her eyes now closed and feeling his heart beat underneath hers and smelling the sunflower and camomile soap she had made for him on his hair.

“The happiest.”

He had asked her this question on the day of their wedding, now three years ago and for every week since. Back then, he had been so afraid of her running away. But Ostaera would not trade this luck for anything in the world.

She did not care that she had worn her wedding gown for each special occasion in the Crossing ever since, having died the fabric slightly when the opportunity arose. It was no matter that apart from some small items, she owned no jewellery anymore for each moon turn Emmerich would return with a set of flowers for her to wear in her hair.

This love, it had become more than she had ever imagined it to be. She enjoyed each passing day, the quiet ones during thunderstorms where Adolar and Lorelei would creep into their bed and they would laze around while lightning lit up the outside- and the loud ones, with activity buzzing through their kitchen and seemingly every person in the Crossing arriving at their doorstep at the same time for an inquiry. 

It was nothing than magnificent to her.

“Torch!” Adolar called out excitedly, and Ostaera opened her eyes to see what her son meant. She smiled again.

Through the night and between the bushes of purple fireweed, bronze bells and big yellow daisies danced torchbugs. That was the name Serah called them, though to Ostaera they were fireflies. Not that it mattered, for Adolar and Lorelei both simply called them torch whenever they appeared.

She kissed Emmerich then, with the remnants of light from inside the doors of Mattis’ and Janina’s home reflecting in his dark green eyes.

Home.

They remained for what felt like a small eternity, simply wrapped up in one another, their foreheads touching, until the loud yawning of Clover interrupted the serenity. The other couples seemed quite put out by the dog breaking the spell, too, and soon enough a new wave of laughter wafted through the air.

“This beast” Jon exclaimed, and took up a piece of venison and gave it to Clover without reluctance.

“Let us get the little ones into bed” Ostaera said as she caught eye of Old Christoffer, leaning fast asleep against the wall of the house on a bench, “Or they will never come back.”

Thus, the almost nightly hunt for the young ones began.

Anne, the eldest Miller daughter, caught Adolar and Ostaera found Lorelei lurking under her favourite swing and playing hide and seek. As soon as her daughter rested her head on Ostaera’s shoulder, she fell asleep.

Whispered good-night wishes were proclaimed to their neighbours as they passed one another, waves for those further away, and one after the other the plain wooden doors in Wendwater Crossing were closed and locked shut.

Emmerich had begun closing the shutters when Ostaera laid the twins to rest in their bed, merely quickly washing their hands and feet. A full bath was in order on the morrow and she both looked forward and dreaded the event. Mayhaps she should ask for Janinas oilcloth apron- if it was good enough for blood, a little (or a lot) of water would not phase the material.

Taking her hair out of its bun, and shaking it out, Ostaera felt the last tension of the day subside. Not even taking of her stays was as satisfying as this. Especially since Genevie had shown her how to do more than sit and walk in stays after her first week in the Crossing. It was deceivingly simple and Emmerich always seemed astounded when he noticed she still wore such odd undergarments.

“Will you wake the twins while I make something to eat?” she asked while unlacing her dress.

“Yes. The men and I will head out closer to midday, anyway, we made quite some progress with the clearing. It will be a good year, worth good money, too.”

“I am glad, we shall be in need of it when the wedding commences.”

“Viorel still unsure?”

“Yes” Ostaera stopped her motions as Emmerich started pushing the gown from her shoulders and chasing it with his lips, “But she is young yet. My mother has- she told Viorel she could arrange a better match for her and I think, Viorel feels the need to accept it.”

Emmerich kissed around to her other shoulder.

“But you told her that she’s not indebted to your family?”

“I did” Ostaera sighed and, as her sleeves starting falling down, turned around to face her husband. Raising her hands to undo the few laces of his doublet, Ostaera pulled him down for a proper kiss while stepping back towards their bed carefully.

Her dress crumpled to the ground with his shirt, and Ostaera let her fingers wander over the warm skin as if she had never touched it before. Her heart beat faster as Emmerich kissed down her neck and nestled in between her legs.

A silent moan escaped her, always mindful of the sleeping children in the next room.

Loud clanking came from outside, and Ostaera thought of the sawmill for a second.

The clanking got louder, and new sounds now accompanied it.

Emmerich stopped as she lifted her head from the bedding.

“What is it?” he asked, then righted himself almost instantly, “Those are the sounds of hooves. Many, too.”

“Riders? At this time?”

They clambered out of bed, the sound still getting louder, and moved to the small shuttered window.

Torches, real ones, big and at least five-and-ten in number, seemed to float through the forest path from the south. It did not register in her head for a moment, ere she realized someone might have been sent. They may require directions, or rations.

“Better get dressed” Ostaera advised, taking another, cleaner dress from a chair nearby and pulling it over.

Her husband, on the other hand, opened the chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a well-made leather jerkin and a sword belt. His blade, resting on the wall with pride, was in his hands just moments later.

Outside, Clover started barking.

Swiftly, Ostaera strode into her children’s room. Both were wide awake, huddled underneath their bed, the blanket pulled down and around them like a tent.

“It is alright, my loves” she said, though blood pounded in her ears. Were these people highwaymen? She forced her hands to stop shaking and crawled over to her children, who immediately raced into her arms. The blanket was pulled with them, and Ostaera wrapped it over their shoulders.

“I will await them at the door” Emmerich said and Ostaera nodded, still crouched down on the floor.

He seemed to think for a moment, then walked over and pressed a kiss to her head and on the hair of Adolar and Emmerich.

She looked after him, trying to remain calmer than she felt for her children. It was most likely, these were just armed men, or even knights themselves, passing through Wendwater Crossing on their way to the capital. And if not, Emmerich had faced worse and more skilled men in battle than mere bandits.

Clover still barked, and Ostaera could hear the door to Bowen’s house across the path creak open. She wished, she could see what was going on.

The riders were now nearly outside their own home, the sound of their horses neighing and breathing loud in the near-silence of night.

“What is your business in the Crossing?” Emmerich called out, his voice assured and carrying over to the other houses.

A single horse was moved, then a soft landing and the sound of plated armour.

“Lord Baratheon?”

Ostaera almost lost her balance, though she was kneeling on the floor. What was the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands doing in this small village?

No reason came to mind.

“I need to talk to the Lady Ostaera, Ser Emmerich. It is a most delicate matter.”

With trembling knees, Ostaera rose, both children settled in her arms with their faces buried in her neck. She did not mind that they were heavy and difficult to carry, and that it would seem most undignified to appear in such a manner before Lord Baratheon. Yet she did not find it within herself to care.

“Please, be seated” she heard Emmerich say as a way of invitation, and then the sounds of Lord Baratheon’s heavy footfalls making their way up and into their home.

A fire was lit by the Lord himself as Ostaera found the bravery to enter the room, and he looked older than she remembered. Worn out, with a pale face tired from a long day’s travel.

“My lord” she attempted a curtsey but Lord Baratheon paid her no mind, instead sitting down on the bench where he seemed terribly out of place.

Emmerich still stood in the door, behind him still the lord’s men with their lit torches standing guard.

“I do not know how I could explain what needs to be said” Lord Baratheon begun, taking of his well-crafted gauntlets. His hands, too, were shaking.

Ostaera sat down opposite him, and as he saw the twins, Lord Baratheon seemed to recoil. Her heart stopped, then.

What was the meaning of this? Her fingers sought purchase and found it somewhere in the folds of the blanket, clutching it like a shield. Her right hand came to rest against Lorelei’s head, Adolar having disappeared against her stomach completely.

Lord Baratheon breathed in heavily, his large form almost falling into itself.

No one spoke.

“I was…sent” he shuddered once more, “by His Grace, King Aerys II of House Targaryen to, as he put it, acquire the Lady Ostaera as the wife of his son. The heir to the Throne.”

Ostaera blinked.

“What?” she breathed, sounding more like young Anne than herself. Her voice was not her own, no thought coming to her mind.

Nothing, her head felt like it was spinning and empty.

“What?” she asked again, as if such a simple word held the answer- or would break the spell that must have befallen her, for such a thing was impossible.

“He has gone mad, my lady” Lord Baratheon said, now looking up at her with tears standing in his once vivid blue eyes, “The King is…he cannot be reasoned with. He tasked me with finding Prince Rhaegar a wife, of Valyrian descend- he said, I should travel the lands far and wide, and even to Essos if need be.”

He swallowed, then continued.

“But the Grand Maester, he remembered Tarth” the Stormlord seemed to rumble, “Said that the Targaryen line on this island deserved someone more worthy than mere lords.”

Her stomach was falling, but Lord Baratheon did not know her heart and thus did not stop.

“The King would not hear my reasoning. He said, that the blood of the dragon needs to sit on the Iron Throne. I told him that every woman in this family was married, and with children- yet…yet he did not care.”

“This is…I cannot…”

“We will find someone else!” Emmerich yelled, still in the door, though now clutching it. “A woman who looks like Ostaera and is willing, my wife- we cannot…”

Ostaera found love for this young man once more growing within her, wished she could hold him in her embrace- so all those she held most dear were close.

“He asked me to kill any man, woman or child who stands in my way” Lord Baratheon said, though his face was still directed at the table in shame, “But I will not harm your family, Ostaera- I asked the king that I may go to Essos, yet he refused.”

“Yet you will take me with force though I am unwilling?”

“There is no person I trust to play your part, I know of no young lady to bear your resemblance who would pass as a Lady of Tarth. I sought in Storm’s End and my lady wife made inquiries with her ladies, yet none would hold in front of King Aerys. His spy master…he is- I do not trust the man.”

“I could go” a female voice sounded from the doorway, and Ostaera saw Viorel push past Emmerich with determination written on her face, “I know Tarth, I know Targaryen history and were you to give me a wig, my hair would match Lady Ostaera’s!”

“You will not” Ostaera said, with a strength she did not know where she had found it, “If the King is truly as mad as Lord Baratheon said, I cannot let you walk into his claws. That…it…no!”

“But what are we to do?”

“Lord Baratheon?” Ostaera asked, though she knew the answer to her question too well. She merely needed to hear it from his mouth.

“Yes, Lady Ostaera?”

“Were I to oppose you, to not go on my own free will- would you truly kill these people, my family, to fulfil your King’s commands?”

“He would kill me, my wife and my sons…and every person to cross him that day.”

“So you would.”

Ostaera felt pity for the man, though he sought to destroy her.

“Say it!” Emmerich screamed, now leaning over the table and forcing the Lord of the Stormlands to look up into eyes.

Lord Baratheon stood up abruptly, his chair falling back with a loud noise and strode to the door.

“MEN!” he called into the night and Ostaera swallowed, determined to not let tears fall from her eyes. Emmerich stared at her, wordlessly, his eyes big and just for a breath Ostaera was reminded of their wedding day. He had stared at her then, too, though now her heart was splintering and cracking to see the man she loved so scared.

_Father, Smith, Warrior._

Viorel suddenly stood in front of her, pulling the blanket from her lap and the cold air hit Ostaera and with that the inevitable truth.

As Adolar was pulled from her and into Viorel’s arms, Ostaera got up. Emmerich pulled out his sword as the commands of Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End echoed through Wendwater Crossing. He took up his position in the doorway, and she wished to join him. To take out a sword of her own, to grasp his hand and face the horror together as they had sworn to do.

_Mother, Maiden, Crone._

“TAKE HER, NO BLOOD IS TO BE SPILLED TONIGHT!”

Swords were pulled in unison, and Ostaera’s thoughts raced through her head. She had to run, take her children and Emmerich and run away.

“Emmerich!” she called out, and he looked over his shoulder for an instance, ere the cut of a blade forced him to parry and turn his back on her again.

“GO!” he called, “I’ll COME!”

_Stranger._

Turning around, Ostaera saw Viorel with a scared expression in her dark eyes waiting next to the door to their chambers- uncertain. Taking her friend’s hand, Ostaera pulled her to the back where the door to the pantry opened into their overgrown backyard.

Grasping Lorelei, who was clutching at her gown with her little hands, Ostaera ducked down and turned to the right where the tree line was mere feet away.

“Step aside, boy!” Lord Baratheon called out, though his voice was not cruel.

More sounds of fighting reached her ear, and as the two women and children slowly made their way through the brambleberry bushes and hawthorn thicket, a loud groan and the clanking of a sword on stone broke through the night.

Ostaera’s heart stopped, and she could not breathe.

Emmerich.

Not Emmerich.

_I am his, and he his mine._

More calls, though she could not hear the words they said.

Someone pulled on her sleeve.

A torchbug danced out of a nearby flower like a falling star, surrounded by the beams of moonlight stretching over the roof of their home and the treetops like pale fingers.

Suddenly, Ostaera felt herself yanked backwards and she screamed.

“Careful, you bastards!” Viorel shouted, spitting and Ostaera saw one of Lord Baratheon’s men holding her upper arms in a tight grip, Adolar still held within them.

Another one now stepped towards Ostaera and she felt as if her feet had grown into the ground. Clutching the small bundle, this proof of her love to Emmerich, to her chest, Ostaera tried to stay upright. The man stretched out his hands towards Lorelei and Ostaera silently shook her head, and suddenly her hand was flying through the air and slapped the man clear across his exposed cheek.

_From this day to the end of my days._

Ostaera stumbled back in shock, her hand pulsing in pain.

The man raised his own hand, clearly to slap her, then his companion spoke.

“Don’t Rhon, take the girl and we’ll go” he sounded as tired as Lord Baratheon.

“The bitch slapped me!”

“Take care of this one, I’ll handle the lady” he said, waiting until Rhon had grasped Viorel’s arms and started pulling her away. The young girl started shouting, and now Adolar started crying. A hand clasped over Viorel’s mouth and her string of insults stopped.

“My lady” the man in armour said, “Give me your daughter.”

Ostaera swallowed and shook her head.

“No will harm will come to her, I promise.”

“I will not leave her, I will not go with you” Ostaera said, now trying to walk backwards into the woods once more.

She now realized that she was truly crying, tears running down her face without pause or relent. She could feel Lorelei cry to, though silent. She always was silent, her little girl.

Not like Adolar, who was loud and boisterous.

Lorelei was only loud when Emmerich was singing, joining her father in his working tunes.

Emmerich.

_One heart, one flesh, one soul._

Ostaera pressed her eyes closed.

“Is he alive, ser?”

_One for eternity._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter. If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment.  
> Feedback, if worded as constructive critisism, is much appreciated. 
> 
> Let's get into some of my questions for this chapter.
> 
> It might be a tough question, since we don't spend a lot of time here, but **how did you like Wendwater Crossing? What about Ostaera's responsibilities which are quite different from that of a lady?**
> 
> Also, I know most of you probably expected the story to take the Bonifer/Rhaella route in that our knight and lady were doomed from the beginning and their tender love would never blossom. **What did you think when you read that they had started a family? What do you expect to happen to Adolar and Lorelei (also: Opinions on the names?)**  
>  As an aside: I know that most of you, who are from the US or GB, probably closely associate the name Lorelei with the mother in Gilmore Girls. I never really watched the show, and for me Loreley is from the legend of a rock cliff along river Rhine (legend has it she would comb her golden hair and lead sailors to sink their boats). 
> 
> Defining the relationship of a couple is always complicated, especially since I didn't write about how they really developed. Emmerich and Ostaera simply happened. **Was that alright? Did you think, their love was believable from what you saw?** If not, I will rewrite some parts since this is quite important in the coming plots.
> 
> Then, Baratheon men enter the village. **Did you preceive the encounter as tense, up until Emmerich called Lord Baratheon by name? What about Lord Baratheon's motivation?**  
>  My initial outline saw this more as a "hit and run" type scenario where no one would know what had happened until it was over. That did, however, not feel right. Lord Steffon is also not Robert.  
> The Stormlord also explains why Aerys is so hung up on the Tarths, at least a bit: The King is completely insane, and sees in them the perfect match for Rhaegar. Of Valyrian descend, not from Essos and thus close at hand. **Did that sound like an Aerys- decision to you? What about the other people at court?**
> 
> The last section is the almost-escape of Ostaera, but she freezes up when she hears Emmerich go down inside. I used the marriage vows, or what we know of them, to try and convey her mindset more clearly. **Was I successful?** Writing a scene like this, were I really want to punch the reader in the gut with feelings is not easy. But I hope **this scene at least made you feel somewhat despaired/melancholy. Any feelings are good.**
> 
> I will decide on the next PoV tomorrow morning, though I have a hunch it's going to be our favourite Dornish Princess. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	11. Elia II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Written in stone  
>  Every rule, every word  
> Centuries old and unbending  
> "Stay in your place"  
> "Better seen and not heard"  
> But now that story is ending _ ~ Speechless, Naomi Scott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> I'm feeling inspired (also the next week is going to be tense, so better get what's inside my head out there) so here you go.  
> As the summary suggests, the song plays a major rule in getting me into the right headspace. I had not listened to it before and it is incredibly powerful, so I'd reccomend it for your own writing-times.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter.

# Elia II

Crumpling the impertinent piece of parchment, Elia marched through the sunlit corridors of Sunspear. White and yellow curtains billowed over the pointed archways, and the occasional guard nodded at the Princess.

Her mood, however, was clearly written across her face as she approached her mother’s solar.

Without knocking, Elia pushed through and caught sight of Princess Hemera sitting across from her brother Doran, in deep conversation over a cup of freshly brewed tea.

“I shall not stand for this” Elia exclaimed, brandishing the parchment, closing the distance between her and her family in a few strides that were more akin to the pouncing of a mountain lion. The slip of paper fell unto the cyvasse board unceremoniously, the red and gold wax seal making a pathetic clacking sound.

“Elia” her mother sighed, taking the offending object and pulling it off the board, “It is a necessary evil.”

“No, it is not. What has gotten into you?”

The Princess Hemera rose from her seat: “I know Aerys, Elia. If this rumoured venture of Lord Baratheon proves unsuccessful, which it will- by the Gods, searching across the Narrow Sea? His eyes will look to us. We need to keep you from the Keep.”

“By marrying me to the _Lannister boy_. Lord Lannister insulted me, have you forgotten? I will not be wed into this vile family- it would offer me a golden cage.”

“Oberyn” Doran began, but Elia raised her hand and he stopped.

“Do not bring him into this- he would never agree with you. Do not think me so naïve to not understand why you offered me after he had left.”

“It is the only way.”

“Oh no, mother” Elia spat, already turning around and leaving the room, “You will not make a dutiful wife out of me, this will not be taken from me.”

Raising her floating skirts, bearing her bejewelled sandals to the world, Elia marched back out. No tears gathered in her eyes, anger filling every vein in her body. What had she expected? For her family to see a worth in her that was more than just being sold.

Elia pitied the girl that would marry Lord Jaime, for no one would lead a happy life under the thumb of Tywin Lannister. Even Lady Cersei…Elia shuddered inwardly as she remembered the cruelty the young girl had shown her brother. She would not marry into this family.

She would not marry Crown Prince Rhaegar either. He was courteous, Elia recalled, and a fine dancer and singer- but nothing else beside that. More akin to a wet piece of white linen than a person.

Halfway across the mezzanine floor that wrapped around the atrium, Elia walked right into the arms of Ashara.

“Elia, what is going on? The guards are locking the gates to the palace. Are we to be attacked?”

Elia’s nostrils flared, and she grabbed Ashara’s hand to pull her closest friend along towards her rooms in the far tower.

“My mother and brother have lost their minds, Ashara. I have to leave, this very moment” she stepped through the curtain into her room, looking around quickly. There was not much she could take with her.

From under her bed, hidden beneath an embroidered blanket for colder nights, Elia pulled out the satchel Oberyn had advised her to keep at hand wherever she went. Her brother had not been as paranoid as she had once thought.

Without thought, Elia pulled off her fine gown, letting it fall down on the stone carelessly as she pulled out her favoured disguise from the satchel. It was crumpled, yet it would have to be enough.

“What…where will you be going?”

Elia looked up at the younger Dayne girl, whose purple eyes were large and scared.

“I will not tell you, I cannot risk being found” she finished pulling on her disguise, stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Ashara’s forehead.

Suddenly, the palace bells started ringing.

“FIRE!” someone shouted out, and Ashara rushed to the window to look outside as Elia turned to her small vanity table for anything else she might need.

“The palm terrace is burning” Ashara called out, and now Elia could make out the shape of white and grey smoke through the thin silk.

The bells got louder, and Elia grabbed the sharp knife Oberyn had gifted her, pulling her hair out of its shawl, discarding a few pieces of golden jewellery and swiftly pulled the dagger over her hair at the shoulder.

Holding the ends of her long hair in her hands, Elia only now realized what she had done. The brown locks fluttered to the ground, Elia’s heart beating hard and irregular in her chest. The dagger disappeared in the satchel.

Ashara looked aghast, then blinked and clapped her hands. It seemed to pull Elia back into reality, the two girls once more taking one another’s hands and running out of the room with increased pace. Instead of the main path, Elia pushed them through the many hidden stairs that went down. Oberyn’s room was waiting at the other end of this set of stairs- a fact they had used quite often when they were younger.

Elia also knew that a set of stone reliefs and pillars connected his balcony to the stables- which her brother had used to sneak into the city.

Pushing through his empty rooms, strangely seeming as if he had just left, Elia let go of Ashara’s hand as she sat herself over the balustrade, the satchel now secured around her torso.

Ashara laid her hands atop Elia’s, squeezing them in reassurance. She did not say a word, her eyes however were expressive enough. Elia focused on these eyes, as she lowered herself slowly down the wall, clutching at the carved vines and faces, grapes and suns. She could feel were Oberyn had been, some parts smoother than others, and Elia thanked her brother silently for his debauchery.

The bells were still ringing out, and distant shouts echoed over the rooftops.

With a too-loud cracking sound, Elia let herself fall down onto the stables, almost breaking through the tiles. Clutching at one of the beams, she swung herself down and into the stables.

They were empty, no horse to be seen and the door to the outside paddock and tree-lined pasture stood open.

There was no going back now, Elia decided. She did not know where she was going, casting one last look over her shoulder at the palace.

Readjusting the straps of the satchel, fiddling with the buckles, Elia pulled the thin shawl as a hood over her head, swallowed and set out for a sprint into the fields.

Her feet drummed over the grass, and it was the only thing she could focus on right now. Their rhythm did not fit with that of the bells behind her.

She could see the few horses of this stable grazing in the half-shadow next to the water trough, not saddled and clearly anxious.

It had to be enough, Elia thought.

Staying meant becoming Lady Lannister.

She would not be their newest toy, not bow down to these cruel lions.

Raising her hands, and deliberately calming down her breathing, Elia walked over to her mare. She was a magnificent horse, the coat the colour of wet sand and with a black and white mane. It might prove foolish, yet Elia had decided and now it was time to act.

Skilfully, Elia pulled herself atop Mithra, now holding pieces of her mane in her fingers. It had been years since she had ridden without bridle, but she trusted Mithra. The mare had never thrown her off, and Elia had raised her from birth.

Kicking Mithra into a canter, Elia considered her paths into freedom.

The bells stopped.

To the East, the city awaited though it was several stories lower than the palace. The people also knew the horses in the royal stables. To the West, the castle awaited her and behind that the desert. North lay the Watergardens- she would not go there, too predictable.

Pulling the shawl over her mouth, taking hold of Mithra once more, Elia enforced the canter, picking up speed in a wide arc across the small field. Once she had line of sight on the enclosure, the wood painted in Martell-colours standing out against the palm trees that offered shadows to their trusted beasts at every hour of the day, she halted for one last deep breath.

She galloped, leaning over Mithra’s neck, making herself smaller.

They had made such jumps countless times, on the paths around Sunspear and in the training yard.

Elia could hear and feel Mithra’s breath, and murmured senseless words to her mare.

The fence line drew closer and, now trusting her instinct, Elia pulled Mithra up, feeling the mare’s front legs pull into the air, her hind legs pushing off with the power Elia loved in her so much.

They flew and Elia could see the panels underneath Mithra’s flank, ere the mare made to land and the moment of weightlessness stopped.

“Well done” Elia said, surprised by how frail her voice sounded, kicking into a canter once more.

South.

The harbour, the beach would be her perfect escape.

Elia did not rest, only halting to let Mithra drink from a spring when the opportunity arose. Sand steeds were hardy, made to survive the harsh deserts but it was not worth tiring her wonderful mare out.

If she kept up this speed, Elia knew she could make it to Planky Town within the remaining hours of daylight. The trading spot was roughly one hundred miles South-West from Sunspear.

As Mithra grazed on some grass, Elia wondered for just a moment what would be happening at the palace right this moment.

Her mother would be devastated, that she was sure of. Angry, too- raging against each and every person who dared to let her get away. Mayhaps even slap the maester for he had not taken the message before she could.

And to think, she had only been in the rookery to see whether Oberyn had send a new letter. The last she had heard, he had left the Citadel and made his way to Essos with dreams of the Golden Company.

Slowly, Elia lead Mithra back onto the overshadowed path her father had commissioned, a glorious alameda to welcome his bride. Parasol pines, mimosas and black locust lined the cobbled stone which was regularly flooded with a redirected flow from a spring to water the trees and cool the way.

As Mithra carried her further South, Elia noticed for the first time the rings she still wore on her fingers. At least two on each finger, some gifts from her mother, some from her father. How she missed him.

Would he have married her off to someone she despised?

He had never liked his wife’s friendship with either Queen Rhaella or Lady Joanna, distrusting of anyone outside of Dorne.

Would she have been content as the wife to some noble who wished to rise in station?

Arthur.

The thought came to Elia’s mind as she passed a small patch of lavender, it’s intense smell in the hot air filling her every sense until she had ridden past.

She dared dreaming what would happen should she ride to King’s Landing, mayhaps disguise herself as a simple maid and enter the services of the palace. Seeing Arthur’s perplexed face would prove worth the pure stupidity of such an endeavour.

Cleaning after other people for months was not what she envisioned her life to encompass. Arthur Dayne was not the reason she was fleeing and he would definitely not listen to her reasoning. Kind, he was, but not filled with enough determination to let her get away with what he perceived to be beneath her.

No, King’s Landing was out of the question for multiple reasons. Running from one destiny into another, offering herself to the mockery of court with the dragon looming over her shoulder would not do.

Aerys may not recognize her, for that his mind was too far gone, but Rhaegar had been surprisingly perceptive for a man with so little other characteristics.

Elia did not know where her hatred for the Crown Prince had come from, and she found herself mentally stopping in her tracks as she noticed what she had been saying to herself. Or Lord Jaime, for that matter- he was young, she should not judge them so harshly.

At least, the entire world expected Princess Elia Nymeros Martell to be a sickly, weak woman- merely one step ahead of her brother in health. Were it not so cruel to Doran, Elia might have sat in a rolling chair, too- to make the ruse more memorable. Alas, that decision had been taken from her now.

The sun burned on relentlessly as Elia found her steady way, a merciful breeze from the sea brushing over her ever so often, while she considered further options.

She could bind her chest, disguise herself as a boy and take a vessel across the Narrow Sea. Find Oberyn, join him and become as feared a warrior as her brother.

Though she would most likely get raped and killed before ever reaching Tyrosh or even Pentos. On a ship, hiding ones identity was harder since everyone shared quarters.

The other Seven Kingdoms would look at a Dornish man or woman with either disgust or wonder, raising questions she could not answer. They would expect her to be a whore, which Elia was not willing to succumb to just yet.

She was a capable seamstress, a fine fighter (mostly because men underestimated those weaker than them) and good at haggling. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to make a living with, truly.

The world was now her oyster, free for taking and Elia laughed out loud at her indecision as to what to do with herself. She could go wherever she pleased, do what she had always wished to do and she was stuck at the second step of her journey.

What would she like to do?

Fighting, using a spear and be capable. Mercenary was the obvious choice, or even master at arms. But no one would trust a Dornishman to teach their children, and acting on her own was not practical.

Learning.

The Citadel.

Were it not so hot, Elia would have slapped herself across the head for her idiocy. Had she not dreamed of doing just that, joined by Oberyn under the stars?

She would have to become a young man, but after all Oberyn had told her about the Citadel, these learned men were not as smart as one would anticipate. The mind loved seeing what it wanted to see, so that was what Elia had to show them.

It would also be easier to get lost in the throngs of bastards and lowborn sons who entered into the Citadel each day, no one would pay any mind to a single Dornish bastard there and thus not report back to her family.

Did she know anyone who had gone there?

Apart from Oberyn, no one came to mind.

Perfect. Then, she would need a name she could stick to.

Her brothers had called her Eli when they were younger, or in the training yard to tease her. Not a particularly good disguise.

Elian?

No, no. Elia chastised herself for not being more creative in such a time of need.

The sun started setting, during which Elia still considered names. Any name from her family where out of the question, and it would not feel right to take that of one of the servants walking around the place.

One letter after the other, Elia went through the alphabet and thought of every male name. Nothing sounded quite right, most were too pompous to fit her persona as a simple bastard or sounded wrong with “Sand” as a surname.

Arriving at F as Planky Town finally became visible over the horizon, Elia decided to take the next name her poor head would find in its far recesses. That would give her at least two hours to get used to the sound of it, say it out loud, and remain somewhat satisfied.

Fidelion.

Fidelion Sand.

That sounded good, if a little too melodious. Almost like the name of a famous singer who travelled up and down the coast to earn coin. Lowering her voice, Elia started singing in what she hoped to be a good imitation of a man’s timbre. Thankfully, she had never sounded as seraphic as her mother did. Ashara had a wonderful singing voice, high and clear- carrying easily above the harp she favoured. Elia smiled at the thought of her closest confidant.

What fate would befall her?

Mayhaps she would join her brother in the Red Keep, Elia hoped her mother would not hold Elia’s rashness against Ashara. The Dayne lady deserved the best the world could offer her. She was a smart young woman, with a good heart, too. Whoever would marry Prince Rhaegar could use a companion like her.

Lord Baratheon was probably already en-route to Essos to find a suitable woman. Elia had always assumed, Lady Cersei would be the first choice though that had been before the King and his Lord Hand had a falling out.

The fortifications of Planky Town drew near, the banner of House Martell flying high above the gate house. Though, as Elia neared the wall, she could see that it was not the usual banner with its red sun in an orange field, pierced by the golden spear. One side, yes, the other one displayed a grey sun on a black field, the spear still golden.

It was the signal of mourning in Dorne, it had flown in the Palace and the Water Gardens when her father had died and Elia had not seen it since. It was only raised for a member of Dorne’s ruling family or after a war.

With her heart beating in her throat, Elia slowed down Mithra’s gait and approached. Two armed men, both holding another mourning banner, stood on the stairs that lead into the gate house. They carried their helmets underneath the other arm, their gaze turned downwards.

The one on the right lifted his head as she neared and Elia pulled down her shawl, whishing she had shadowed her jawline to appear like a beard.

“What business do you seek in Planky Town?” the guard asked, his voice unwavering though his heart did not seem in it.

“Passage, to Oldtown, ser.”

The guard merely nodded, leaning on the flagpole once more. Elia swallowed, not daring to ask.

As she crossed into Planky Town, she saw that not only the gate house but also the main villas in the centre as well as the harbour buildings carried the black banner. She slowly rode past people who were wrapped in muted colours, not their usual vibrant yellows, blues and burnt oranges.

The sun had now really set, reflecting of the sea in a rainbow of colours.

Elia slipped of Mithra’s back, slipped one of the harnesses out of the town’s stables and lead her loyal mare down the cobbled streets to one of the harbour tavernas.

It was eerily quiet as she reached one of the outside set of tables, candles in colourful paper lanterns hung around the perimeter though the patrons were mostly nursing their drinks.

Looking to the nearest one, a sailor with a well-worn shirt and an empty tankard he was spinning restlessly between his fingers, Elia put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up tiredly.

“What has happened? I was travelling for the whole day…”

“There was a fire in Sunspear. The Old Palace…one of the parlours caught fire” he brushed tears out of eye and his companion took another swig of his deep red wine.

“The Princess Elia…she died in the flames, and Prince Doran is- last we heard, he was suffering from grievous wounds. He tried to get her out, but it was not enough. They say she pushed him through burning furniture to get him out…”

“What?” Elia breathed, feeling her knees wobble and sank onto the bench next to the sailor, “That is not…dead?”

The man nodded, but said nothing further. His friend, however, was either drunk or so cold against the world’s horrors that he explained instead.

“A raven came some hours ago, said the Princess would be buried in the Water Gardens…or what remains of her, s’ppose. Prince Doran is fighting a fever, his right leg was burned badly but the maester seemed confident he’d make it. Gods know when Prince Oberyn will learn of that.”

Elia found herself crying, the sailor patting her on her back and calling down the barmaid for something to drink.

All the tension she had felt left her body, and she did not know whether she cried from relief, thankfulness or fear. 

“Wha’s your name, lad?” the companion asked as the tankard with spiced wine was put down. Coin was exchanged.

“Fidelion” Elia muttered, still looking at the ground in confusion.

“Weird name” the companion muttered.

“Me mother always told me, my father was a traveling singer” she explained, though her heart was not in it.

What was happening?

Why would her mother and brother call her dead- it made no sense?

“A bastard, then? You’re in good company, Fidelion. I’m Merian, Sand too. That’s Daeron.”

Elia looked up at them, sitting up straight and pulling her legs over the bench to face the table.

“Then, my friends, let’s drink to our Princess!” she called out, her voice breaking on the last word, and the three raised their cups as the tavern joined them. Some even stood up from their chairs, some almost falling down again.

“To the Princess!”

“ELIA!”

Fifty voices echoed over the yard, soon joined by those of nearby tavernas, and Elia felt it in her bones.

“Has anyone of you ever met her?” someone asked, it was a man with sunkissed skin, his hair long and bound back, clothed in a half open blue shirt. He sat on his table, a lute resting against his leg as he was slowly strumming along.

“What d’you think, Andante?”

The singer continued strumming: “I did, a few years ago. She favoured pieces about the sea, I performed this one for her quite often.”

As he started playing, no words floating over, Elia found herself remembering him. Not his voice, but indeed his melody. Ashara and her had danced to this tune in the gardens for as long as Andante had stayed in Sunspear.

It had reminded her of Oberyn who had left a few weeks prior, and it had called out to her. She found herself crying again, her head now resting against the table.

It would be so easy to simply go back, take Mithra and ride up the coast the way she’d come. Oh, how angry mother would be. How glad.

Looking up, Elia took the cup and emptied it in a few big gulps, feeling the alcohol buzzing through her body quickly. She ordered another, paying the copper pieces with great difficulty and only Merian’s arm on her hand halted another quick downing.

“Pace ye’self.”

“What brings you here?” Elia asked, trying to focus on Merian’s face.

“We are sailing along the coast, mostly to Starfall and back. This here idiot is from there, needs to get the coin back to his wife and son.”

Elia looked to Daeron and nodded sagely: “Well on you.”

Her speech was slurring, and Elia did not care.

There was no Princess Elia Nymeros Martell anymore, just Fidelion Sand on his way to join the Citadel in Oldtown. The Princess was dead.

Elia took another gulp, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth to catch some of the spilled droplets. The wine kept her from thinking, and she did not want to think tonight. Thinking would lead to regret, and that to pain.

She had done the right thing. Right?

Drunken singing soon overshadowed Andante’s playing, though it was mostly incoherent.

“Were are you going, Dellio?” Daeron asked, and Elia looked at him with great difficulty. The other man was almost laying across the table, head pressed into his hand to look at her.

“Oldtown, wanna join the…maester thing.”

“Ah” Daeron looked into his cup and Elia joined him.

It was empty.

Merian snored loudly, which seemed to shake Daeron.

“Help me with the old man? Need to get back to the boat…ship.”

Elia nodded, standing up. Around them, she could make out the shapes of other dwellers who also lay across the table in mild chaos. Were it not for some woman singing another melody from a nearby window, a mourning song, Elia would have laughed. Now she wanted to cry again.

Wrapping their arms around Merian, Daeron und Elia stumbled through the Taverna. Elia heard hoofs and saw Mithra out of the corner of her eye, following her owner like the loyal beast she was.

It took hours, and Elia was strikingly more sober as they reached the harbour side and the merchant vessel Daeron steered them towards.

The Princess Hekate, named for…a great-aunt of her…Princess Elia’s father.

The Sun and Spear fluttered in the nightly breeze on the top mast.

“You can stay o’er there” Daeron said, pointing his hand towards a sack of straw in the corner opposite from the bed where he dumped Merian.

“Thank you” Elia grumbled, staggering up the stairs to take care of Mithra. Did horses travel on boats? She could not remember.

They had to- Oberyn would never leave his Elatha behind. He loved that horse more than anything. Sinking against Mithra’s soft fur, Elia found herself crying again.

Oh, Oberyn. She should write him, anything.

The boat swayed, and Elia felt sick. This was insane, what was she doing?

Mithra pressed her nose against her neck, and Elia cradled the mare’s head in her arms.

She had always imagined running away as this glorious adventure, blazing paths no one dared walk on beforehand. Side by side with Oberyn, fighting anyone who dared stand in their way.

This, this pain- this want to just run back home, she had not thought it to be within her.

She thought of Doran, laying in his sheets with a burned leg and a fever…lying for her sake. They had never been the closest, he would not have stood in the way of her marrying Lord Jaime and now he was suffering for it.

Did her mother know? Did Doran himself know or did they think she had really died in these flames?

She had wanted to be free, but was the prize for it so high- did her old self truly have to be erased like this for it to become reality?

How had that fire even started? In a parlour, Merian had said. There was only her mother’s on that side of the castle for she loved the way the sun broke through during the evenings. It was easier to read that way.

Looking past Mithra’s head into the night sky, Elia found her confused thoughts come to a conclusion that seemed too outlandish even for her.

Would her lady mother, a Princess of Dorne, and her brother and heir to Sunspear start a fire to distract from what they knew to be her escape? They had seen her leave, must have known her intent clear as day.

Elia’s heart wept for them, for these people she had felt betrayed by only for them to gift her what she had wished for.

She smiled and cried for the Gods know how long, until Mithra fell asleep on the straw laid out on deck.

Tired beyond sleep, Elia picked herself up and started a descent back towards those who could offer her passage to as far as Starfall.

One last stop, she thought. One last opportunity to return home, and rise from the ashes if need be.

What a song that would make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter. If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or comment.  
> Feedback, if worded as constructive critisism is much appreciated.
> 
> Let's get into the thick of my thoughts and questions for this chapter.
> 
> At the beginning, Elia faces off against Doran and her mother, Hemera, as she has just learned they brokered a betrothal to our (my) favourite Lannister Jaime. For those interested, I will say that for Tywin the idea was to get Jaime married so he doesn't join the Kingsguard. No, we'll see what is going to happen. **Are you as glad as I am that Elia did not have it and fled instead?** Not wanting to marry either Rhaegar or Jaime seemed like enough motivation to me.
> 
> Then we get a daring escape, where Elia takes a page out of Oberyn's book and climbs down into the stables. I am aware that in Canon, Elia is always described as feeble, weak and barely alive. To me, it always seemed like she would have been fine, had she not been forced to live on either Dragonstone (aka the most depressing castle in the South) or with Aerys (which would drain anyone of their strength). So, she's quite a bit more capable. **Was that believable to you?**
> 
> On her way towards Planky Town, Elia considers her future. One of my ideas did indeed see here disguising herself somehow and entering the Red Keep to be with Arthur. But why would she do that?- So I dropped the idea. I stuck, however, with the name Fidelion (from the opera Fidelio). **Where would you have gone in her stead? Maybe across the Narrow Sea and indeed join Oberyn?**
> 
> Elia's mindset goes from determined to afraid, since she now learns that being free is scray when you have lived in very defined social structures all your life. **Did you empathize with her thoughts and doubts?**  
>  She also wonders about Ashara, who has become a dear friend to Elia. **Where do you think the young Lady Dayne will go? Where do you want her to be?**
> 
> As we enter Planky Town, Elia sees that not only is the mourning banner (which I am unsure whether it exists in that capacity in GoT) has been raised. Also, the guard seems distraught and soon Elia learns that the fire that helped her escape not only hurt her brother Doran but also "killed Princess Elia". **What is your opinion on this twist? What about Elia's sort-of break down and getting-drunk with strangers afterwards?**
> 
> And lastly: Now that she has secured (more or less) a way to Oldtown, **what do you expect Elia to do once in the Citadel? What about Oberyn?**
> 
> This will, most likely, remain the last chapter for the week. We have quite some threads going on at the moment which need to get picked up. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	12. Taj II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He does not remember the War, not like us.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> First of, thank you all for your reviews and kudos.   
> Second, I know the last Taj chapter was received with mixed ideas but I hope this one might change your opinion in that regard.   
> Also, I have noticed a frankly crazy influx of readers ever since the Ostaera III chapter aired and I am kind of flummoxed. Thank you, nevertheless- that's amazing. 
> 
> Without further ado,  
> Let's get into today's chapter

# Taj II

The new recruits had surprisingly managed to build up their tents without any incidents tonight, and Taj looked over the pitiful heap of people before swiftly turning his back on them and returning to his own.

It had been restocked with nice bedding and a desk, though Taj wondered what he could use it for. Wandering some hundred feet further into the centre, Harry Strickland and Ser Toyne had put down a camp fire. Catching the wineskin Harry tossed him, Taj plopped down on the dirt next to them.

“Healing up well?” Toyne asked and Taj made a vague hand motion.

“Should have killed the fucker and be done with it” he said, trying to ignore the pain from the spear the Red Viper had used against him.

“Quick one, that” Harry agreed, but the rest of his speech was interrupted by another one of their companions making his way over. Taj rolled his eyes, already knowing where this night was going to go.

The boy, three years younger than Taj himself, strode down the main path between the large centre tents as if the entire Company obeyed his every command. His indigo eyes, pale gold-blond hair long and partially braided away from his angular face only served to make him stand out in the middle of the ordinary looking people.

Phaeron Blackfyre was holding a scroll above his head like it was the answer to every question ever asked. As he sat himself down with as much flair as his excited lithe self could muster, the parchment almost fluttered into the flames before him. Taj almost relished the expression of panic.

“What you got there, colt?” Toyne asked with a bemused expression on his scarred face.

“A letter from the Spider” Phaeron said, the proud glimmer returning to his eyes. In the light of the fire behind the darkening sky, it was almost pretty.

“What’s news from Westeros, then.”

Strickland had the uncanny ability to make every question sound like a statement, and he was probably the only one in the Company, Phaeron feared.

“Oh, plenty. Someone broke into the Old Palace of Sunspear and laid a fire. The Princess…what’s her name…she died.”

“Elia?” Toyne asked, his eyes widening and Taj let his fingers run over the deep scars Prince Oberyn had left him with, “Fuck.”

“Why is that bad for us?” Phaeron asked confused, as the three men handed the wineskin around between them. Taj let the strong drink burn in his throat.

“It’s an innocent life, boy” Toyne said briskly, “She was in line for becoming Queen of Westeros. The Martells are fine people, good people- honourable.”

“Oh.”

“What else?” Taj asked, before Phaeron accidentally tore up the scroll in his sadness. Whether the Blackfyre was now sad about the Princess dying or being told off, he could not tell.

“The Spider says, someone else was brought to the Red Keep for Prince Rhaegar to marry” the name of the Prince, Phaeron almost spat out, “Some girl from Tarth, it seems.”

“Tarth?” Toyne asked, “The island?”

“That it is” Strickland confirmed, “They are under the rule of the Stormlords, not much influence in the world. I think they might be related to the Targaryens, though.”

“The Spider says, that at this time, only the Small Council knows about this decision. They’re awaiting the judgement of the Faith before announcing it, officially” Phaeron consulted the scroll carefully, “She was married before, but the husband was ‘taken care of by the King’, whatever that means.”

“Aerys would marry his son to a woman already wed?” Taj asked, “That’s insane.”

“Well, she’s got Targaryen blood and it’s Tarth- no one will care. When is the wedding supposed to take place?”

“At the beginning of the next year. That’s what…four moon turns?”

“Aye” Toyne said, “They will wait whether she’s pregnant. Poor girl.”

“What would they do with a child?”

The men all looked to Phaeron who swallowed deeply and uncomfortably. Taj took another deep swig from the wineskin. He remembered the girls in his old home crying when their time came. Remembered the screaming of new-born babes, and the soul-crushing sobbing of the girls when their child would not breathe.

They almost always did not breathe.

“Wonder whether Aerys would claim it for himself?” Strickland mumbled darkly, “It could support his claim to the Throne, strengthen his position after Duskendale.”

“That should never have happened” Taj added, “Why involve a Myrish lady?”

“We know, Taj. Lady Serala was…not…”

“She was innocent, and you know that. But instead of being well, and alive in our camp she’s what? Right, cold and dead somewhere in Westerosi soil.”

Taj got up, Toyne not looking up from the ground. Serala had once been a camp follower, and Taj remembered her as a lively and smart girl. Master Illyrio himself seemed to think she would be capable of handling the mere Lords of Westeros. Once, Taj had wondered, if the Master of Pentos might not even love Serala were it not for the way Mopatis spoke of his wife.

“We know, Taj” Strickland said, “But she knew what she was doing.”

“And she got killed for it. For what?” Taj’s Myrish accent slipped into his low Valyrian harshly, and he did not care, “So a man of our own may sit on this Small Council? Aerys is still alive.”

“Did you forget our plan?” Phaeron asked now, clearly upset as well.

“Right” Taj exclaimed, turning around swiftly like he was expecting the blow from a blade, “The brilliant plan that relies on the King being dead. The Spider cannot creep and climb into the bowels of the keep now.”

“There will be retaliation, for Serala too” the Blackfyre intoned with a fake deepened voice, trying in vain to embed pathos into his speech.

Taj huffed: “You’re searching for a myth, kid.”

“They’re real!”

“If so, then you have some dragon eggs in stone- how can that prove anything.”

“I’m a Blackfyre, the rightful King of Westeros.”

Now the boy had gotten up too, to almost scream into Taj’s face. For a mere moment, Taj calmly looked at him, before striking him with his backhand across his cheek.

Phaeron stumbled back, his right hand lifted to his face and pain plainly written across his face and pretty eyes.

“Get a grip of yourself. Do you hear Toyne proclaim himself the commander of the Golden Company whenever a recruit dances out of line?”

“No” Phaeron grumbled, his eyes now flickering to Toyne and Strickland but the men merely watched them.

“Right, then you won’t go shouting about that either. That’s not going to make you a King sooner than those damned eggs. Now, explain to me what you want with them.”

“The dragons inside them merely slumber, Taj. I can wake them up, I know it!”

“How?”

Phaeron seemed to grasp for words once more, looking around before his eyes caught on something.

“We’ll go to…to Asshai.”

“ _Asshai_?”

“Yes, there are Shadowbinders and things darker than that in these lands.”

“We cannot simply cross the _Dothraki Sea_ , let alone the Red Waste and the entirety of Yi Ti so you can jumble your way through a conversation with a Shadowbinder.”

“We’ll sail.”

“Past Sothoryos, and through the Jade Sea? We would be traveling for years, if we’re lucky.”

Phaeron stared up at Taj, swallowing words he dared not speak, ere he stormed off in anger towards the place where their horses were bound up in the shadow of some trees.

Taj sighed, letting his hand run over his smooth head. Toyne and Strickland looked up at him.

“What?”

“You care about the lad” Toyne said with a smirk, “But you are right, too. His plan is a dream of the youth.”

“What else can we do?”

“Wait for Ghaen, he might hold further information.”

Wait, they did. The sun had fully disappeared behind the horizon where Myr lay. Taj sometimes caught his gaze wandering in the direction of his former home. He had vowed to come back for them, and yet it had never felt right when he had returned. Daring to enter the walls meant returning to something, Taj did not know if he was ready to face it.

Staying here, by the fire, meant hoping they were still alive. Closing his eyes on nights like these, with the waves rolling by not too far off, he could almost see his sister dance in their meagre room. Glowing black hair, eyes the colour of copper hidden beneath wild curls.

Or his mother’s voice, singing in High Valyrian so her daughters…daughter could dance in free pirouettes. Like life would wait for her.

But entering the city, finding them- it would be terrible.

Staring up to the stars he now knew by name, and how to navigate with them on the open sea itself, it was easier to pretend as if Taj had always been alone.

“He will come around, Taj” Strickland said lowly, “The boy is not stupid, he respects you.”

“He always does” Taj answered, sitting up once more as he heard Ghaen stride towards them, “That’s not it. He’s going to take measures into his own hands, sometime. Get himself killed.”

“Talking about Phaeron?” Ghaen asked, as he sat down opposite from Toyne, “Saw him lurking by his precious horse earlier.”

“What have you got?”

“The Spider will have told you about the Martell palace?”

They nodded and Ghaen shook his head: “Saw the Red Viper in the harbour, he looked ready to call upon the wrath of the Gods themselves. I fear for those in his way tonight.”

After another moment of silence, Ghaen began talking again: “One of the Khal has recently been defeated, his khalasar currently on the way to Vaes Dothrak.”

“But they’re calm?”

“As ever” Ghaen confirmed, “Slaver’s Bay, too. Their squabble has been settled surprisingly quickly, some slaves were publicly executed but the Masters did not enter full on war. Astapor now has doubled the size of their Unsullied.”

“Bricks and blood built Astapor” Toyne said, though not finishing the rhyme as Taj did in his head.

They had been to Slaver’s Bay, and that single time had been enough for Taj to last a lifetime. He did not care for Astapor’s red walls and dusty streets, nor Meereen’s Great Pyramids, nor Yunkai’s moaning women.

Each city had made Taj want to retch for every breath he took in these walls.

He would be glad, if they never had to set foot in these places again.

“I also received word from the Spider.”

That made Taj’s head spin around abruptly. The man had sent two missives from the Red Keep?

“What did he tell you, he did not write to Phaeron?” Strickland stated, his brows furrowing and now keeping an eye out for the young Blackfyre.

“He tells me of Prince Rhaegar” Ghaen shook his head in disbelief, “He has become ever closer to the Sword of the Morning, and…he was found in the library at night, reading the oldest of tomes and writing to his uncle at the Wall up North.”

“Has he no bride to spend his time with?”

“The Spider tells me, he does not know of her yet. Only the Small Council, the King himself and Lord Baratheon of the Stormlords are aware. There was some…issue with the Tarth woman. She was already wed, her husband alive and well. A knight, it seems.”

“But…what?” the commander asked, shaking his head as if that would push the words back.

“Pycelle mentioned her name, raging on about how her Targaryen blood was wasted on that knight. Some Ser Hasty. Aerys sent Baratheon to their home, both the husband and her children are now dead.”

Taj stared into the flames.

“They can be glad, Aerys did not order them to the Red Keep to be burned” Strickland mumbled, clearly supressing a shiver at the thought, “Or worse.”

They had witnessed a priest of R’hllor doing is sacred duty in burning some dead pilgrims on their way down to the Gulf of Grief last year. Back then, Taj had felt the serenity of the priest’s belief. The beauty in the flames, but when they had new reports of the cruelty of Aerys II, Taj felt unsure.

When fire brought such deep destruction, how could one pray to it as if it were your god?

“Can we not move faster, or is the Spider still unsure of his position?”

“Oh, no. The King relies on him quite firmly now, trusts him. As soon as we give word, the precious cargo will be retrieved and delivered to Pentos. We merely need to keep our charge alive until then.”

“Either we disregard our newest contract, then, or he’ll have to stay” the commander proposed, drawing the outline of the coast between Myr and Pentos into the sand with a stick “The Iron Bank has asked for us to travel for Braavos, and we will go by Norvos to receive the latest payment. He has learned quite a lot, yet I fear…”

“You fear he will grow weary?”

“Worse. Arrogant. He won’t learn that he is no King yet with us, not when everyone but us bows before his every word” Toyne added, “He does not remember the War, not like us.”

Taj looked at Toyne, the man clearly dwelling in memories. The distant look in his eyes always overcame those men who dared talking about the War that had almost decimated the Company and killed their previous leader, Maelys.

“He only knows the man who killed his father” Ghaen said grimly, pulling his right leg closer to himself. “A bloody good fighter, that Selmy.”

Ghaen had lost his leg underneath his knee, and though he could still fight better than those younglings the Company took on, he had now found solace in collecting their information. 

“Still, what to do with Phaeron?” Taj redirected, “The boy might learn how to become a decent swordsman in time, but that is not enough. Not if he wants to become the leader of anything.”

“Quite right, Taj” Strickland said, shaking himself out of his small stupor, “Seeing himself as the Conqueror come again won’t help him with a united Westeros. The Prince” he gestured towards the West vaguely, “Rhaegar, he’s incredibly popular.”

“You have something in mind, Harry” Ghaen said in annoyance, “Come on, you don’t manage our coin for nothing.”

“He needs a Westerosi education, has to know how the land he intends to rule works.”

“That…yes, sure. But we can’t send him there. Look at him, he looks like he’s Rhaegar’s brother.”

“I want to get rid of him as much as anyone in the camp” Taj laughed, “But even I can see, that he’s going to get executed when Aerys hears of him.”

“Who’s the best King you can think of, right now?”

No one said anything. Taj was glad, he could remember the names of the Targaryens currently alive, but to know those who had died decades ago? He had not joined the Company for their involvement in politics, so he raised his hands in surrender. The others exchanged glances, but still said no word.

“Right” Strickland said, only slightly discouraged, “To me, it was one of the Aegons, can’t remember which one. He was travelling up and down Westeros for so long, became a knight and everything. Do you think, that’d work with him?”

“Depends. He’s still recognizable as fuck” Toyne answered, though you could see his brain working away slowly, “And he can’t go alone, either.”

“Change his hair-colour?” Ghaen asked, “There’s some families in Westeros with purple eyes, I think. The Daynes, and House Velaryon. Could be enough. But we don’t have no-one to send with him.”

“Right, they’re pale over there.”

Silence fell over their little fire.

“It’d put everything at risk, too” Taj suddenly said, “If he gets killed, we won’t know until the Spider tells us. Most here can’t write. Or read.”

“Nothing too bright in our future, then. Forget I said that.”

“Still, there are plans he has. We can’t get him to Asshai, somewhere else, maybe?”

“Valyria?” Taj asked, though not feeling to confident. The ruins were one of the only things outside of Myr, Taj had found himself fascinated with. Who knew what treasure, what secrets, they could find if they dared venture there. 

“That would be just as dumb as going to Westeros right this moment. The Ruins are too dangerous for anyone to traverse” Toyne disagreed, shaking his head and taking the bowl of stew out of its place by the fire.

Placing it down, he held his hands out for their cups to fill up. Taj cleaned his out with a small rag, to keep as much sand as he could out of his food.

“But not impossible” suddenly, Taj felt invigorated. As if he had just won a training match against Strickland himself. Toyne handed his cup back, clearly intrigued. Taj seldom chose to speak up in their true decisions, knowing his rank was too low in the Company itself.

“Well, then. You want to go, you’ll go” Toyne ordered, his tone somewhere between annoyed and kind, “We’ll bring some people together, mayhaps up to fifty men, and send you down from the Rhoyne.”

Taj swallowed.

“It’s going to be a hard trip, but you’re capable enough” Strickland continued, now taking over the thought the commander had begun, “Mopatis will have new information on the eggs and you can traipse around some ruins. If we’re lucky, we meet up in Selhorys with an alive Blackfyre and some stone dragons.”

It was not unheard of, to send smaller troops off from the main Company so that potential serjeants could prove their worth with less important contracts. One of them, Caspor Hill, would meet them on the morrow at the northern city walls. 

“A couple of moon turns could be enough to get to Oros and back, if you’re lucky you can sail across to Valyria itself, though be careful.”

“We will be” Taj said, suddenly finding his voice once more. This was his opportunity, the one he had been waiting for ever since Strickland had started giving hints that Taj was said to be in consideration. One step further from the little boy scouring the harbour of Myr from dawn till dusk.

“That’s the spirit” Ghaen exclaimed, apparently the only one truly happy about the decision “I cannot wait to hear of your exploits, lad. You’ll have to stock up on your tonic.”

Taj fiddled with the little bottle, a new one after his old flask had shattered nigh on two years ago in a fist-fight, and held it against the light of the fire. He grimaced, as it was indeed almost empty.

“I still don’t understand how you can use this hellish tincture” Strickland said while shaking his head at the memory of the smell, “You’re fine now.”

“Leave him be, Harry” Toyne sighed, “He needs all the muscles he can get. Especially once they hit Valyria and the food gets scarce.”

Taj placed his vial once more in its pocket, knowing he had been lucky with these men. They had heard about fighting pits, knew the desperation of urchins and young boys trying to survive each day. It had been easy to tell them that he had used it to grow muscles despite not eating well, almost too easy.

Every time, Taj felt the urge to tell them about Noelene, he searched for the small flask to remind himself that Noelene was dead. If Taj wanted to live, it had to be so. Yet, at the same time, he felt no remorse about lying either. It was more akin to feeling he should be remorseful, that he wanted to be honest.

But what would honesty buy him?

The men had stopped nagging him about his slow beard growing once he earned the first scar on his face. But he would not give them the satisfaction of knowing they had been right to call him girl so often. No, he had fought so hard to earn this place, and he would continue earning his ranks as every member of the Golden Company did.

Close to midnight, the fire dimmed and the men sought warmth in their tents- Taj walking further than even Ghaen since his rank was still below any of them. The other members of the Company thought him weird, Taj knew, for trying to reach the top as fast as he could but Taj had long stopped caring.

Toyne, Strickland and Gayne certainly did not care when he sat down with them that first evening. He still took hard beatings from the first two, earned as much as those around him, but he felt almost safer in the midst of these three men than the entirety of the Golden Company itself.

His only real friend, Gorys Edoryn, was out with the group around Caspor and Taj hoped for nothing more than that he would be able to come with them to Old Valyria.

As Taj sat up on his trusty horse in the midst of the fifty men that were to go with him, Phaeron and indeed Gorys towards Old Valyria, it seemed unreal. Looking east as far as he could, Taj thought of the long route they had to take. The darkness did not reveal any hidden shores or shortcuts, not that they would need them.

In his mind, he went over the dirty parchment that was the map he would use one more time, finding Chroyane on the shores of River Rhoyne easily and following the stream South towards Volantis. The Rhoyne would be able to make the journey possible, their lifeline in the uncertainty that was Essos.

“There they are, finally” Phaeron called out, laughing easily. He had, surprising Taj, not resisted when they had called for him to colour his hair. Now it was almost black, though closer to the grey Toyne sported.

He leaned forward on his mare in excitement, his sword clanking against his saddle until Taj stepped forward on his own horse. At once, Phaeron sat upright and tried to not be as excited as before. He failed miserably, but Taj merely rolled his eyes without commenting.

Closing in, some hundred feet away, he could make out Gorys easily in the midst of the well-rested men. They must have come a short distance this morning, most likely from the coast.

The blood-red long locks of his friend’s hair stood out against the yellow sand, his yellow cloak the colour of the sun that had yet to rise. Gorys looked around too, and the two young men nodded in acknowledgement as they caught each other staring, grinning.

The new serjeant Hill exchanged words with the commander and the paymaster, handing over some coin and then calling Gorys forward. Grinning, he rode over to the little group of men behind Taj and Phaeron.

“Going up in the world, are we?” the red-head asked, looking at Phaeron with his signature smirk, “Glad you waited for me.”

“Not sore from riding with Hill?”

Gorys’ answer was interrupted by Toyne turning around to face the Golden Company where it stretched over the plane before the walls of Myr, ten-thousand men strong.

Toyne called Taj forward and without hesitation, Taj wound his way through the two rows of serjeants in front of him until he faced Toyne. His horse did not stumble, did not neigh even though it must have felt his nervousness.

“Make me proud. We’ll make for Selhorys after the business with the Iron Bank has concluded, and we will have word from Master Mopatis in Pentos by then. Good luck” Toyne said, holding out his hand in its heavy steel gauntlet.

His eyes, old, wise and brown looked down at Taj with determined pride. The younger man did not trust his words, only reaching over and taking Toyne’s hand. They held for a moment, and Taj looked back at the commander who tried imparting any message before they would leave.

Old Valyria was a gamble, though Taj was determined to make it worth their time somehow. Either Phaeron would return a leader, or carrying riches beyond their imagination.

Grasping the pommel of the bastard sword he had chosen after surviving the last trial, Taj made his horse turn around and nodded towards Gorys who followed his lead eastwards.

The fifty men and Phaeron followed suit.

Behind them, Taj could hear the remaining men loudly set into motion to ride north for Braavos. Some strange feeling settled into his heart, almost making him turn around to look at the golden cloaks and high banners, yet he resisted.

The gravelly voice of Gorys made him turn his head to the side.

“Old Valyria, huh? What’s your plan?”

“Looking for…something. Phaeron expects some precious relics from his family, and we’re looking for clues in the ruins.”

“Clues” Gorys echoed, “The little Blackfyre is trying to find himself a dragon? That’s insane.”

Taj shrugged: “It is, but who knows what the old freehold hides from us. Could be gold, or some nice steel.”

“I could use a new sword” Gorys said, caressing the blade of his arakh with glee. Some of his rings caught the light of the early morning sun easily.

“You would never give her up” Taj laughed, lightly increasing their speed with the sounds of the men’s voices getting lost in the breeze, “You love the damned thing.”

“Killed some Khal for it” his friend said, tinkling with some of the bells he had added.

“Yeah, yeah…a khal.”

After a moment, the two fell into laughter, with Gorys’ hoarse chuckling always making Taj wonder whether his friend’s throat was actually alright. Mayhaps the sand and dust of the desert had finally settled into it?

“Some time in the Rhoyne delta will do you good, you sound terrible.”

“Suit yourself” Gorys said and rolling his dark eyes, shadowed by bushy eyebrows and the black paint he liked using. In the dim light of an attack you would mistake him for a laughing skull easily.

“Taj, when will we make camp?” interrupted the voice of Phaeron before Taj could ask Gorys what he had been up to the last few moons.

“During mid-day, as always. It’s some 450 miles until we reach Chroyane.”

Phaeron was silent for a moment: “That means we will be riding for at least four days?”

“Well said, lad” Taj praised though he kept his expression neutral, “And how long do you expect us to take to your ruins?”

“Well…” Phaeron began with the tone of a boy who knew everything about the world.

“It takes us ten days to reach Volantis. Will we sail from there or ride?”

As the sun began rising in full force, casting long shadows and almost blinding them, Taj considered the options.

“We will decide when we get there, the men will have some ideas and either end this or continue.”

Seemingly shut up, Phaeron fell back to talk to the others.

“You truly have not decided?” Gorys questioned while he loosened his night cloak, “Seems unlike you.”

“Because I lied to him. We will ride as far as we can through the ruins, I don’t trust the place to take a boat.”

“But you trust the animals enough?”

“They can at least think for themselves” Taj shrugged, but then stopped immediately. Strickland always slapped him when he did that. Said it looked like he did not trust himself.

“Run when they run, smart.”

“Right. Thought so, but try convincing the boy about that. He’ll want to charter a fucking galley, never mind that we’ll sink because no one knows the waters of the Smoking Sea. We’ll follow the coast South and North again.”

“What do you expect to find there, Taj?”

Looking at his friend, Taj considered denying he was trying to find anything. But lying to Gorys had been and always would be the dumbest thing, Taj could try to do.

“I’m not sure, not really. You know what they want to get from Westeros?”

Gorys looked back at the men for a moment and shook his head.

“Heard some rumours while I was with Hill, that they were trying to get some swords from the Throne or something.”

“It’s worse. The Spider is trying to smuggle fucking dragon eggs out right from Aerys’ nose.”

Gorys coughed, a violent sound and he reached for his wineskin hastily.

“Dragon eggs?” he wheezed, squinting at Taj like he was some desert ghost.

“Aye, and we’re going to find anything to help with that. Our Phaeron has big dreams of becoming Aegon the Conqueror come again, who knows.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No” Taj said almost laughing, “Of course not. We just need something to keep Phaeron occupied, something to keep him from whining about everything under the sun. He knows nothing, and that won’t help him.”

“Right, not the most inspiring member of the Company.”

“Definitely not. Strickland thought, we should send him wandering up and down Westeros, but forgot how anyone would recognize…everything about him.”

“Sounds like a ‘Harry-idea’” Gorys agreed snorting, “Man would send us sailing across the Narrow Sea on the morrow if he had an inkling.”

“And now, he sent us walking after…nothing.”

“Eh, it’s not nothing.”

Taj looked ahead again, where the red beams burned brightly and doused the sands in light like blood on a blade.

“You could be right, my friend.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter!  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment.
> 
> Now on to some rambling/question for your consideration.
> 
> So, we meet the Golden Company once more outside of Myr and get introduced to, well, the reason I made this PoV in the first place. **What do you make of Phaeron Blackfyre?** Remember, he's not Viserys (post Rebellion) nor Daenerys (pre or post War). 
> 
> Phaeron comes with news from Varys, who by now has managed to be chosen as Spymaster by Aerys. In the letter, the news from Sunspear is included, as well as the information that someone has been smuggled into the Red Keep. Namely Ostaera. **What about a possible child, should Ostaera really be pregnant?**
> 
> We also learn that the Golden Company has some small involvement with the Defiance of Duskendale. Now, I don't subsribe to the opinion that Serala, the Essosi wife of Lord Darklyn, was alone in her scheming. She's a foreigner, and that's why she was served such a frankly cruel sentence by Aerys. However, knowing what we do about Varys and Illyrio, I do believe that she is connected to some power-grabbing, thus the involvement of the Golden Company. **What do you make of that paragraph?**
> 
> Varys' objective, at least per the GC right now, is to smuggle the dragon eggs Aerys found on Dragonstone out from the Keep and into the hands of the last living Blackfyre. I am aware that Illyrio claimed the male line died with Maelys but it wouldn't be the first time someone lied to protect their sources. **Do you think such a scheme would be successful? Would you rather the dragon eggs by in possession of the Targaryens or the Blackfyres? Do you think, Phaeron will be able to awaken them?**   
> Reading ASoIaF Fanfic always ends up with someone finding clutches of eggs somewhere which I find sad. They're supposed to be these mythical creatures, that used to be abundant in Valyria- but also dangerous and terrifying. Unlike direwolves, which were clearly shown to be dealt with if anticipated (I am still not over Grey Wind) dragons are almost invincible. **What is your stance?**
> 
> In the first Taj chapter, his motivation was to be revealed as trying to find his remaining family. Yet in this chapter, he clearly abandons this MO in favour of the "expedition" to Old Valyria. **Do you like this character so far?** I have to admit, it's hard to write a PoV knowing a part of my audience won't care for them as much as I do or as they do for others. That leaves me with two options: a) less Taj chapters, only sprinkled in when I need some time to breath outside Westeros or b) more Taj chapters until we reach a point were you are invested in his story. **Which option do you favour and why? What am I missing to give these Essos chapters the same flair as the Westerosi?**
> 
> Varys clarifies through Ghaen (who is not the same Ghaen as the one we meet in Canon, by the by) that even Rhaegar doesn't know Ostaera has been abducted yet. All thanks to Pycelle. Knowing that he is in the pocket of Tywin, **why would the Grand Maester instigate this plan? Why choose a married woman from Tarth?**
> 
> Taj goes out of his way to fend for Old Valyria as a destination, and the leaders of the Golden Company are rather supportive. I know this comes rather out of nothing, we haven't had time to establish Taj as anything within their ranks yet- unlike Jon Snow with the Night's Watch, where we see him grow under Mormont's faith in him. **Was that believable or too contrived? What do you expect them too find there?**
> 
> As I probably said somewhere in the last notes, distances in GoT are always weird. I used some maps with scales and then approximated the time they would need on horseback (assuming a horse could sustain some 10mph for some time). It's one of my pet peeves, knowing distances and the passage of time, so I hope **it doesn't bother you when I mention such things**.
> 
> And lastly, we have Gorys Edoryn who, in the future, followed in Strickland's footsteps and became paymaster. **What about their dynamic?**
> 
> I am done for now. The next chapter, a visit to Rhaegar in the Red Keep, is already one-third complete, so I'm positive it'll be ready by the end of today or tomorrow morning.
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	13. Rhaegar III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How easy it would be to take his sword and plunge it through his father’s chest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> Thank you, once more, to all those who read these chapter, or leave kudos or comment.   
> We are, once more, back in King's Landing with the Crown Prince himself.
> 
> Without further ado,   
> Let's get right into today's chapter.

# Rhaegar III

The book slipped from his hand as he turned to face Ser Barristan and Arthur who stood behind him, their hands clasped behind their backs and with stony expressions on their faces.

“What?” he breathed, hearing himself talk as if he were on the other side of a door. Under water, even.

Not feeling his legs, Rhaegar sank down on the shelf ladder next to him, grasping at the wooden handles like they would anchor him. The word he had just heard did not catch hold in his head, racing around inside it like a wayward bee.

He felt something inside plummet out of his chest, pulling his shoulder and ribs down with it, plummet through his legs and vanish somewhere in the cold marble floor. His eyes had stopped seeing, they just looked at everything though it was blurry.

“She is in the Holdfast right this moment, Your Grace” Barristan said, sounding like he was declaring someone had died. The old knight looked down and swallowed heavily, shaking his head for just a moment.

How terrible for this most loyal of men to serve a king, to save a king’s life, who did not care for the humanity in his subjects as the knight did. Did he wonder if abandoning Aerys in Duskendale was the Gods’ last, cruel chance for their salvation?

To Rhaegar it seemed like someone had died, mayhaps not their body yet the woman’s soul and heart must be shattered like precious glass. Was this year to be the most devastating, taking lives of innocents wherever it could?

First Princess Elia dying in a fire in Sunspear, now this?

“What happened?” he asked, looking up at his closest friend and oldest confidant. Their faces were almost unrecognizable and he knew they would not have slept the last days, and would not either for the nights to come.

“Your father ordered her be brought in, so says Lord Lannister” Arthur answered finally, looking disgusted. Dark circles rimmed his usually vivid purple eyes, his white cloak replaced with black ever since news from Sunspear had come. No one had dared mention this breach of code, and Rhaegar remembered his best friend sinking to the ground on the shores outside the Keep- far away from prying eyes- and screaming into the void of Blackwater Bay at Night.

“She…I know she was betrothed to someone, surely…” the Prince found his words, scrambling his memories for why the name had seemed so familiar- seeing a sigil in front of his eyes, writing a missive to Tarth to congratulate them.

“Someone has been sent to the Citadel” Barristan shook his head again, “As far as the King is concerned, the Lady Ostaera never married. Not that it matters.”

So few words, yet so much impact.

_Not that it matters._ It did matter, for if they had lived there was hope.

Rhaegar forced himself to look up at them: “They _killed_ him?”

“Them” Arthur closed his eyes, “The husband, a knight _I fought at Storms End,_ and their two children.”

Rhaegar wanted to retch, yet he could not at the same time. His vision was blackening at the edges. Children.

There truly was no mercy left in this world, from neither Gods nor men.

“Does she know?”

“She was there.”

The words pushed into his head like the bells at midnight, ringing louder ever so often, ingraining themselves.

Putting his head into his hands, trying to focus on the pattern of dark marble beneath his leather boots, Rhaegar tried not to collapse.

“This cannot be, this…it…”

The world must be ending, nothing else would make sense.

“Have you seen her?” he asked, finally finding the strength within himself to get up, “She cannot be alone.”

“Your mother is with her, and her family has been…informed.”

“Why her?”

Arthur looked darkly at him: “Anyone but Cersei Lannister, Your Grace. Your father is not above…pettiness. Nor above cruelty. She is of Targaryen blood- that was enough for him.”

“The Faith will not allow it” he heard himself say, searching for any way out of this situation.

What a feeble word- “situation”. This woman had just had her entire life, her existence ripped from her by his father and he could not remember a more appropriate word other than “situation” to refer to it.

“With her husband dead, and soon all records of the family ever existing…it does not matter.”

Rhaegar’s hand went into his hair, his eyes jumping hastily between every detail they could see yet never truly looking at any of it.

_It does not matter._

_Not that it matters._

“Is she…is the Lady Ostaera with child?”

He dared not think what would happen to the babe, born or unborn, if his father caught wind of them existing. Should that be the case, Rhaegar found himself vowing to protect their life with his own. It would matter, it _did_ matter- at least to him.

“The Grand Maester has not yet decided, none apart from your Mother and a maid have seen her yet. They arrived late in the night, and brought her into the Holdfast through some of the secret corridors.”

“I…I would like to see her, she must not see me.”

Something to keep his mind occupied, to get ahead of this wicked game again. There was now more at stake than he would have ever anticipated, and Rhaegar found himself struggling to find the correct path.

The two knights nodded, and Rhaegar strode past them briskly, entering another room next to the library and found the entrance to the secret passages easily. Almost every ornament in this Keep served more than one purpose, yet Rhaegar had never used them for such a truly vile endeavour.

Up a small set of stairs, his Knights following almost silently behind, and along some corridors, Rhaegar strode relentlessly. He did not know why he had to see her, but he knew she would not want to be close to anyone. Mayhaps he wanted to see her face, to feel closer to her, to support this lady even though she would not know.

If Gods and Kings knew no mercy, it fell upon those lower than them to find it.

Was it selfish? This wish to look at her, witness her pain like it was a spectacle?

It was no matter- it was also no matter what she looked like, he would do everything in his power to protect this young woman from the cruelty his father had prepared for her.

No- it did matter! Rhaegar almost screamed at himself inside his head. He could not disregard her emotions in this scheme, yet he found himself unable to stop walking. Almost as if he was merely a passenger within his own body instead of steering it.

As they neared the Holdfast, Rhaegar slowed his frankly mad pace, his hand tracing along the wall to find the holes to look through. Only small wooden frames indicated which room they were near, yet Rhaegar did not need their help. He could hear his mother’s soft voice.

Turning to face the right wall, Rhaegar pushed the little plaque in the shape of a dragon head away and bent down.

The room was lavish, decorated in blacks and reds, with large windows and a balcony opening it into the city. On the bed, dressed in a dark teal dress, dirt sticking to it and the seams slightly frayed after years of use, lay a figure coiled into itself.

She looked almost like a child, then- so small. Broken. Like a doll with cut strings.

Her dirty shoes marked the bedding, her hands were grasping desperately at it, clenching and unclenching.

Her hair was pale and blonde, though matted and dishevelled, her face pale and red at the same time.

Her tears, silent and shaking her entire body to and fro, ran down her face relentlessly. As Rhaegar looked at her, the closed eyes suddenly opened as the lady curled even more into herself, and he could not avert his gaze even though it felt as though she was looking directly at him.

They shone with tears, rimmed red, and yet so startlingly blue the colour seemed to make every other shade fade. Like the sea- no, bluer than even that. Yet they did not see.

She merely looked ahead, though she must be seeing something else- somewhere else, with someone other than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Was she at home, with the husband that had been killed to…to acquire a wife for him?

Rhaegar hoped her memory would comfort her, but as he watched those vivid blue eyes close slowly and even more tears winding a path down he felt the same plummeting feeling again.

There was nothing to comfort her, only desperation.

Holding a wet cloth, his mother stepped into his line of sight. She did not say anything, merely making calming noises Rhaegar remembered from when his brother had still lived.

The dragon plaque slipped into place as Rhaegar rested his head against the cold, unforgiving stone.

Closing his eyes, he could see hers again but closer than he had seen them. Haunted. Hunted.

She had become a prisoner, locked inside this Keep to marry a Prince she did not know on the behest of a King who deserved a fate worse than death.

This was his fault. He should have known his father would try something akin to this cruelty, should have prepared since Duskendale.

Had he ordered Ser Barristan to stay at his mother’s side, his father would not have survived the ordeal.

He turned to his knights once more, who looked down in shame.

“Where is the Lord Hand?”

“His Tower, I presume” Ser Barristan said, and they left the secret passageway through a nearby empty solar. The way back felt significantly shorter than the march up, and Rhaegar found himself once more in charge of his legs.

He squared his shoulders as they had climbed the incessant amount of stairs, pulling down his doublet and righting his black cloak with the golden suns in the lining.

“You cannot reverse this, Your Grace” Arthur said, though his heart was not in it. Rhaegar was sure, his friend wanted nothing more than turn someone inside out right this moment, too.

“I shall try” Rhaegar said, knocked once on the door to the Hand’s office ere entering without waiting for Lord Lannister’s word. That privilege had been forsaken the day he allowed such inhumanity to happen under his guidance.

The Hand looked up, either irritated or aghast, yet Rhaegar did not care for his opinion nor his mood.

“Your Grace, I had not expected you back quite this soon.”

“I returned once I heard about Sunspear, now what do you want to do about the innocent woman currently held prisoner in the Holdfast?”

Lord Lannister returned to his letters while Rhaegar folded his arms in front of his chest, seething at the blasé face of the Hand.

“Nothing, Your Grace. The King has decreed her to be your wife, and we shall proceed in this manner.”

“She was married, with children!”

“She is no more. Lord Baratheon informed us that the husband and children have passed away.”

“Yet they were not when you sent him off. There was no talk of her, was he not to go to Essos?”

“Our Grand Maester kindly…remembered her. In the wake of Princess Elia’s tragic passing, we shall be glad that Lady Ostaera has survived.”

Rhaegar breathed heavily, almost slamming his fists into the Hand’s table decorated in golden lions.

“Calm yourself, Prince Rhaegar. It does not befit the Crown Prince to behave in such manner at court.”

He knew that he was being sent away, yet he lingered for a moment more.

“This will not give you the power you seek.”

With that, knowing quite well how foolish it was to anger Lord Lannister, Rhaegar left the room and closed the door almost gently behind him. The Kingsguard knights looked rather shocked, yet he was not quite done- this would not be the end of the line, he could not give up.

There had to be something _good_ he could do. Right?

“When is the family set to arrive?” he asked, once more descending the stairs followed by the rhythmic clanking of the men’s armour.

“Not within the next few hours, Lord Baratheon had his wife inform them but it is still some way from Tarth to King’s Landing.”

“Why Tarth?” Rhaegar asked, turning slightly to look up at them “Why them?” 

They were halfway down the stairs, when Ser Barristan seemed to have found some answer while thinking.

“It might not be the reason, but I remember that Ser Duncan the Tall married a certain Lady Daella Targaryen, and their daughter married Lord Tarth.”

“That is some reason” Rhaegar mumbled, remembering his father’s loud musings on the Knight and his grandfather, “At least, it seems that way.”

Ser Duncan the Tall, the name-sake of Duncan Targaryen, son of Aegon V who forsook the Throne to marry the woman he loved. The woman who led to the marriage of his parents.

With wanting to blame anyone but himself for what had happened in his life, Aerys must have thought of Tarth and heard the name Jenny of Oldstones in his mind. A woman he so severely hated, he would hurt everyone he associated with her.

But had it not been Pycelle who called out her name and relations, knowing full well the reaction he would elicit from the King. Stoking the madness?

“What can we do now?” Arthur asked, clutching the pommel of Dawn as they turned a corner towards the Throne Room, “Confront the King?”

“We would not live to tell the tale” Rhaegar answered, yet uncertain where his feet were taking him, “But with Lord Lannister agreeing to this heinous crime, I’m afraid there will not be much we can achieve. Apart from taking her away, and sending her somewhere she cannot be found.”

“Lord Varys would find her regardless” Ser Barristan reminded them, though not speaking out against their traitorous thoughts, “the man is quite good at his game, and with Prince Viserys alive and well…”

“There is nothing more despicable than men playing with life like it were a game” Rhaegar said, “But Ser Barristan is right. I would dare send her to the Wall if she were a man, far away from my father’s jurisdiction. Safe from the realm, but she would get killed there.”

“He cannot hurt her, not when you are yet to wed her” Arthur mumbled, though he did not dare believe his own thoughts, “Mayhaps we can think of something in the moon turns until it is to happen.”

They entered the Throne Room where King Aerys II rested atop the court arrogantly, leaning back like Rhaegar had never dared, and for a silly moment the Crown Prince envisioned himself striding through the masses and asking his father for a Trial by Combat- or even declaring him guilty of crimes against his kingdom.

How easy it would be to take his sword and plunge it through his father’s chest.

A voice that sounded strangely like his mother, whispered in his head how it would not bring back the dead. A better path had to be found, for he was a better man than his father could ever be.

The court was still in mourning, most wearing intricate black clothing to signal their sympathy to Dorne. The entire room was quite dark, with the sun hiding behind clouds and only the fires in the sconces lighting the large hall. Even the usually comforting sight of the dragon skulls only filled Rhaegar with more dread.

The session must have just ended, but no announcement had been made. There were no whispers between those men and women leaving the hall. Rhaegar let his gaze pass over the crowd, looking for someone who could answer his questions yet Pycelle was nowhere to be seen.

Only Lord Varys, is own dark robes wrapped loosely around his form, loomed next to the Iron Throne. The other Small Council members were not present, either having left already or not having attended at all. Did they know?

“They were all aware, my Prince” Arthur answered his unasked question, clearly reading his mind as he so often did, “The King informed us the Small Council was somewhat involved in the decision.”

“Of course they would be. Is this not treason?”

The knights were silent.

Watching the throng of people leave the Throne Room towards some smaller rooms, discussing their own fortunes, contracts and betrothals he saw one person heading in the opposite direction. She was followed by a group of guards in Martell colours and Rhaegar steeled himself for the incoming pain.

Thinking of Princess Elia was nothing short of torture, for he remembered her daring and wit quite vividly. Like the sister he had never known, Princess Elia was relentless in her teasing, critiquing him for all she found him lacking in.

He could imagine well to be wed to her, she would have been the best of wives and the most marvellous Queen.

The delicate girl in dark purples and blacks, suns, moons and stars embroidered on her mantle, pushed back the hood and her wavy brown hair fell out of it and past her shoulders. Rhaegar had merely time to acknowledge her appearance when she looked past him, spotted her brother and swept into the arms of the Sword of the Morning.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur breathed in visible confusion, nevertheless wrapping his armoured arms about her shoulder and holding her closer.

“There was much I needed to tell you.”

“What about the burial of Princess Elia?” asked Rhaegar, even though it was quite un-princely to begin talking without formal introductions. Lady Ashara was Arthur’s sister and thus, at least were Rhaegar was concerned, as close to a younger sister as he had.

She looked up at him with her dark purple eyes, also shining with unshed tears though the red got lost in the dark kohl she had applied.

“My friend is…there is nothing I can do for her now, she is beyond my reach.”

What a curious choice of words.

The siblings looked at one another once more, Arthur now cradling Lady Ashara’s face in his left hand, and they seemed to exchange entire works of poetry with their eyes. Arthur nodded and Lady Ashara turned on her heels to face Rhaegar once more, now curtsying primly and lowering her gaze accordingly.

“Your Grace, may I introduce my sister, the Lady Ashara of House Dayne” Arthur intoned, and Rhaegar almost missed it when her elbow went out to dig into his chestplate. Arthur grinned.

“I am honoured, Lady Ashara” Rhaegar bowed lightly, “Pray, what news do you have from Sunspear?”

“May we speak in a more secluded place, my Prince? The gardens would suffice.”

Rhaegar offered her his arm and she linked her own through it, following his long strides effortlessly. She was rather tall for her age.

“Will you be returning to Starfall after the ceremony?” Rhaegar asked as they walked through the corridors.

“Most likely not, Your Grace, for I wish to be closer to my brother in this time of grieving. If allowed, I shall return to King’s Landing and stay at court.”

They entered the gardens and Rhaegar led her towards his mother’s favoured place for secret discussions. It would now most likely turn into his favourite spot, as well.

As soon as the little canopy closed behind them, Lady Ashara extricated herself from him and turned her back on the Ocean to face him as well as the Kingsguard.

“My brother tells me, he finds you quite trustworthy” she began and he could hear Arthur suppress laughter behind his back.

“I would hope so, my lady.”

“You must keep secret what I am about to tell you, it cannot leave this place by any means.”

Now Rhaegar turned to look at Arthur, however the knight was entirely focused on his sister, eyebrows drawn together in deep thought. Lady Ashara started pacing slowly in front of them, wringing her hands while trying to find the right words.

“She lives” she said, stopping abruptly and facing away from them, turning around as there was no reaction.

Her purple eyes looked to Rhaegar, but then found her brother once more: “She lives, brother.”

She grasped the side of her cloak, pushing it aside, and procuring a small satchel she then opened. A thin golden necklace started rising, wrapped around her fingers, and with it a golden locket in the shape of the Martell Sun and Spear.

Lady Ashara’s fingers were shaking, grasped the locket and opened it. Inside lay, cast in resin with gold leaf, a strand of hair.

Stepping forward, the Dayne lady placed it in Arthur’s hand, closing his fingers around him: “There was news from the Rock, and thus she chose to end it her way. There was only one way out.”

Rhaegar did not know how Arthur could keep his composure, but he did. No tears, no pained cries, no exuberance. Just the tiniest of smiles as his fingers ran over the resin.

“My lady” Rhaegar began, then, seeking to repay her trust, “I would be honoured if, upon your return to King’s Landing, you would be willing to serve as the lady in waiting for my betrothed.”

“I accept this duty, Your Grace” she said slyly, “Who is she?”

“The Lady Ostaera…of House Tarth. She is in quite some turmoil for she was not invited, instead abducted from her home, her husband and children slain” with every word, Lady Ashara turned paler, her warm Dornish skin looking more akin to sand.

“I will stand by her side, Your Grace” she said without hesitation, clutching what he suspected to be another amulet of Elia’s, “She needs a friend, and I shall be that friend.” 

He bowed once more: “Thank you, it seems the kingdom must rely on its dutiful women now more than ever.”

As she left, most likely to seek out the Dornish company that was to sail for Sunspear on the morrow, Rhaegar sat down on the stone bench with Arthur still looking down at the piece of hair. Ser Barristan followed Lady Ashara with his eyes, and seemed quite smitten with the determined lady.

“This is hope” Arthur said, his voice hoarse, “But I grieve for our people, they loved Princess Elia with all their might. With Prince Doran unable to walk, and her dead they will see the family as haunted by bad luck. They would not be wrong.”

“The news from the Rock she received must have set this in motion” Rhaegar mused, wondering what Lord Lannister would have sent out.

“A betrothal?” Ser Barristan suggested, “However, both sons are quite young. It seems senseless to betroth them to a woman so much older than either of them, the wedding would not take place for years.”

But it did indeed make sense, Rhaegar thought. If she was to marry the heir to the most powerful man in Westeros, Princess Elia would be safe from anyone who would try and dare marry her. Be that either banner men of House Martell, or even the dragon itself.

Was his father truly at the centre of all that happened in his Realm, without being aware of it?

What a cruel thought.

“My sister will be a good lady in waiting for Lady Ostaera” Arthur broke the tender silence, “She and Princess Elia got along famously, like sisters, and even during the Princess’s more painful times they weathered this storm together.”

Nothing less than was needed for Lady Ostaera.

“What is your next step, Your Grace?” asked Ser Barristan in the tone of voice he used whenever they were practicing in the training yard.

What could he do to help her, apart from leaving and never coming back? He smiled sardonically at the thought of staging his own demise, but it would leave his friends open to his father’s cruelty. 

Maester Aemon always wrote about the right path, the difficult choices in his letters. All the times Rhaegar had doubted himself in the last years, whenever thinking of the Prophecy, the old man had found the right words to write to him- yet was he not here. Thus, Rhaegar had to decide for himself what Aemon would tell him.

Nothing seemed quite right. Was there even a right decision to make at this moment, or would all of them lead to more suffering?

Yet, he could not do nothing, could not sit idly by while worlds were shattered for those around him. He had a duty towards Lady Ostaera, and would honour his duty for she was to be family though neither of them were prepared for it.

“Lord Baratheon executed the command, correct?” he asked, looking towards the Kingsguard for more information. How excruciating it was to work behind the backs of those they were taught to ask for help.

“Indeed. The family is sworn to his House.”

Raising to his feet, Rhaegar led them through the gardens. Walking helped his head, made him feel as if he was accomplishing something instead of being the useless inquirer he currently was. Merely a Prince.

Lord Baratheon tended to stay in his usual quarters, as cousin to the king it was his right and some guards of House Baratheon were permanently stationed in the Red Keep. He held no office, yet seemed quite keen to help his king whenever asked too. Even asked to do the impossible.

Rhaegar did not understand how one would do such a thing, was there no better way?

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands seemed to have awaited his arrival, for he had a chair prepared next to his on the balcony overlooking the Bay. Some levels above them, Rhaegar knew, Lady Ostaera lay- hopefully asleep now, resting.

“You must think me a monster” Lord Baratheon began, offering a cup of wine to the Prince while refilling his own swiftly, “But do not pass judgement so harshly, my Prince.”

“You did what you had to do.”

Rhaegar’s voice was cold, finding no empathy for this man. Lord Baratheon seemed to ponder something, looking at Rhaegar intently yet deciding he did not trust him with what he was about to say.

“My family, Your Grace, were in danger if I did not heed the king’s wishes. It is my duty to serve him for I swore a sacred oath.”

“You also swore an oath to your people, people you failed to protect” Rhaegar said, not loudly yet the words impacted the older man as if he had been struck by a great sword.

“The children have been sent away” the Stormlord muttered, “I could not kill innocent babes, barely three years of age- I am not Lord Lannister, Your Grace.”

“A small redemption, my lord.”

“Do not tell Lady Ostaera” Lord Baratheon asked with anguish written across his face, “I do not know how she would respond to the knowledge that her children are far from her. I am no woman.”

“That is not for you decide” Rhaegar interjected, raising a hand to silence the man, “You forfeited your right to care for her the minute you eradicated her life and her love. Did you let her attend her husband’s funeral, did you help bury him?”

Lord Baratheon swallowed, reaching for the wine again but then seemingly thinking better on it. He shook his head.

“When I…when we left the Crossing, the man was breathing. Barely, and heavily wounded from an arrow, but alive. Their maester was tending to him, but…as a soldier I know fatal wounds, Your Grace. If Ser Hasty was lucky, the Stranger took him painlessly and I pray to the Gods that it was so.”

“Why was an arrow shot?” more pieces of what had happened that night unravelled in front of Rhaegar, yet they did not quell his disdain for Lord Baratheon. A despicable action, no matter the outcome.

“She would not come willingly, and Ser Hasty raised his sword in defence” Lord Baratheon swallowed, “He managed to wound me, heavily. His skill with the blade was almost unparalleled. My men did not hesitate and let loose two arrows. One hit him in the shoulder, the other somewhere around his hip. Last I saw him, he was losing blood quite rapidly.”

“Depending on what they hit” Ser Barristan said, “Such arrows would indeed prove fatal within a few hours, even a maester cannot heal wounds when in the wrong place. Not impossible, Your Grace, but unlikely.”

Rhaegar nodded, proud of this Ser Hasty for defending what he loved with such fervour even though he was facing the worst odds.

“Were did you send the children?” he asked, watching Lord Baratheon’s fingers tap uncomfortably on the armrest of the intricate chair.

“They were to be send North, as far from King’s Landing as possible. Not alone, but I did not dare decide who was to go. A young woman, she served Lady Ostaera, most likely went with them. She…”

“What?” Rhaegar snapped, now leaning forward, almost crowding the man into his space.

“She asked to be taken in her Lady’s stead, to pretend to be Lady Ostaera.”

“Do you know her name?” Rhaegar asked, once more rising out of his chair.

“Viorel, if I remember correctly. She was raised at Evenfall Hall, and has been loyal to Tarth all her life.”

While he was leaving, Rhaegar turned around in the door: “I hope you can live with your decision, my lord. Whatever the case may be, you must atone for it. I am not your king, but I have an order for you nonetheless: Let there never be a day where you do not choose the most helpless above those in power.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter!  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment (or both, if you're feeling generous).
> 
> Now onto some of my thoughts on the chapter and some questions, if you are so inclined.
> 
> How to describe someone who just learned the oddest of news. Rhaegar, having returned from what you can assume to be a trip to Summerhall after he heard that Princess Elia perished in the flames of Sunspear, now hears from his favourite knights that some young woman was abducted to become his wife. **What do you make of his reaction and his need to _do_ something? **
> 
> Rhaegar chooses to use some secret passageways to get a look at Ostaera for his peace of mind, and we get a glimpse of her through his eyes. This scene, I needed to get right, especially her eye-colour because (in my experience) blue eyes get more intense when someone cries (it always annoys me when my eyes look fantasty while I feel like an absolute wreck). **What about that scene? Were you able to feel for Ostaera, and grasp her pain?**
> 
> In this chapter, we get around quite a lot in the Red Keep. Next stop after Ostaera is Tywin, trying to get some answers from the Hand. **Do you expect Tywin to try and manipulate her, like Cersei did with Sansa? What do you think he plans for her?**
> 
> As we all have, Rhaegar enters to Throne Room and thinks about pulling a Jaime. I sent him there because he doesn't really know what to do, seeking answers from anyone who is wiling to give them to him. Instead of the men he's looking for, a young lady Dayne makes her way over with some interesting things to say. **What is your opinion on revealing that Elia still lives to Arthur, Rhaegar and Barristan?** I deliberated for some time about where to send Ashara since I wanted to keep her in sight of a PoV. She's compassionate and all you would want in a Lady in Waiting. **Do you think she and Ostaera will get on?**
> 
> And lastly, Rhaegar confronts Steffon Baratheon and learns some things. **What did you think of the portrayal of the Baratheon?** First, both Adolar and Lorelei are still alive and (most likely) in the care of Viorel while on their way to the North. Second, it is unknown whether Emmerich survived the night since he was shot after wounding Steffon. **Should he live, would that cheapen the Ostaera chapter in your opinion?** I always meant to keep the children alive, Steffon isn't Tywin and would never go that far. With Emmerich, it is always weighing my options and deciding to choose the most heartbreaking.
> 
> That is it from me. I have some ideas for the next PoV, but they still need to be considered a bit more so we have some variety. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	14. Viorel I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A heart like the sun, spending warmth to all those around him with a value immeasurable. Not vain, not precious like gold was- with a worth assigned to it by mankind. But burning, glowing and beautiful without them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,  
> It's been a while. Writing this chaper was hard, and (as you've probably gathered from both the title and the summary) it took an emotional toll on me. I have only ever cried once while writing a chapter, and never quite like this.  
> Therefore, if you're having a good day or are **not feeling like reading something taxing** I strongly advise against reading this chapter. Read it when you're feeling up to it.
> 
> Warning: Major character death
> 
> Without further ado,  
> Let's get into today's chapter

# Viorel I

The sound of thick raindrops pounded inside her head, repetitive like drums of war.

Viorel had never been a very devout person, even attending sermons alongside Lady Ostaera when Lady Tarth had demanded it had always been her least favourite pastime, but now- standing next to what was once the bed of the Hastys- now Viorel prayed. To all those who would listen.

Her knees hurt, pressing against the wood while her hands were clenched in the cotton bedding, embroidered with purple suns and white moons, the perfect design to resemble both Tarth and House Hasty.

Viorel opened her eyes, tears still streaming down her face. She could not stop them, though she wanted. Her heart felt broken, splintered, and it would start aching whenever it had stopped. Even in her sleep, those few elusive hours, it did not stop.

She could see the wild storm outside, blowing through the trees of the Crossing with lightning flashing ever so often across the pieces of dark grey sky.

Her gaze followed the lines in the old walls, those she remembered Ostaera talking about repairing, stopped to take in her best friend’s maiden cloak until it landed on the man on the bed. He was so pale, paler than she had ever seen him. The colour of death. His eyes were sunken in, the once long lashes seemed thin, and a cold sweat covered his skin.

Blood stuck to his hair, blood stuck to the white shirt he was wearing. It was everywhere.

Red, dark, black.

His chest was heaving, slow, and sometimes a sound so devastating came from his throat, it shook her to the core. There was almost naught left of the man she had known, only the smallest resemblance of Ser Emmerich Hasty left. 

Viorel wiped her hands over her nose, a handkerchief balled into her fist but it was soaked. No use. Just like her. She was no maester, no priestess. Yet, she remained. She prayed, wiped Emmerich’s brow.

It should be Ostaera here, nay! Her friends should have slept in this bed right now, curled into one another, their children by their side- should not have thought about death for many years to come.

Instead, Ostaera had been dragged from her home into a carriage of Baratheon colours, while Emmerich had lain on the stone, bleeding. There was still a pool of his blood in the kitchen, a stain on the door. His sword still resting where they had thrown it after getting to him. He had not reacted, not said a word since.

Viorel did not know what she wished: for him to awaken, be able to see his children. Or for him to simply follow the Stranger into the night, and to not be reminded that his beloved Ostaera was lost to him forever.

A tree cracked outside, and Viorel felt it in her soul once more.

At least, the storm stopped the night from being quiet. There was no excitement, no laughter. Even the animals seemed to have fallen silent, almost in reverence for the life taken.

Emmerich breathed once more, mumbling something but no words she could actually understand. New tears wound their way out of her eyes. She wished she could know what he said, help him in any way.

She had never felt this helpless, this useless. She had made something to eat hours ago, to keep her mind and hands occupied but the simple stew had gone cold. No one was here to eat it, the children sleeping at Serah’s.

A knock resounded through the room, and had Viorel any power left in her bones, she would have startled. Instead, she turned her head and saw the shape of Old Christoffer slowly make his way over to a chair at the other side of the bed next to the window.

There was a bottle in his hands, and an expression beyond tired in his eyes. He had never seemed this old in all the years she had known him.

His eyes rested on Emmerich’s face and he cried, too. Silent, almost resilient as if he did not want to give into his pain. Yet he did. A hand stretched out of the oilcloth cloak the maester was wearing, coming to rest against Emmerich’s forehead. Like a father.

Christoffer sank into the chair, simply staring down.

There was a moment of silence between them.

“I…I was there to deliver him into this world” the man then said, “I held him in my arms, watched him grow up in this village.”

He shook his head: “Watched him as he chased his dreams of becoming a knight. I…there was comfort in the thought that someone as fine a man as Emmerich would return home. Someone noble, honourable, to protect us and those to come.”

Protect he did, Viorel thought knowing before thinking it that the words would hurt. And they did.

Once more, silence in which Viorel sought the courage to speak. Found words though none seemed right.

“When I met him at Storms End, during that Tourney, I remember how shy he was. How I had to coax him into talking to Ostaera.”

She could see them before her eyes, bathed in the golden light of one thousand candles reflecing off grey walls. The blue dress of her friend, the colour of her laughing eyes. Emmerich’s elegant bow, the way they were staring at one another. Blushing. Silly.

Viorel closed her eyes, the picture blurring with tears. How she wished to turn back time to that very moment. Or mayhaps merely one day. Anything, to save the two people she held dearest.

A bottle clanked, and she looked up to see Old Christoffer place a rounded vial on the bedside table next to him. It was corked, and sealed, a piece of parchment blowing slightly in the breeze.

“I made it to end the suffering of one of our mares” he explained, shaking slightly, “When the morning comes and he is still alive…”

Viorel looked to the bottle again, a piece of glass containing death itself. Was it not the belief of the Seven that to take a life was to commit the ultimate sin? A crime against the gods themselves. Who cared for the gods?

Slowly, pressing against the bedpost, Viorel got up from her knees, wiping her hands across her face once more. She sniffed, uncaring, and grasped the carved wood, drawing strength from it.

He looked at her, nodding as she stretched out her hands. They now both stood, their hands meeting above the form of Emmerich Hasty, and Old Christoffer held her hand in both of his.

“I will do it, child, as is my duty as maester.”

She shook her head, pulling her hand away and grasping the bottle firmly in her shaking hands: “No, not this time. You should not bear this burden.”

Viorel sat down next to Emmerich’s chest, where his hands were tucked under the blankets next to his body. He did not move, no flickering of eyes, no twitching of the eyebrows.

He did not draw a big breath and sat up, like she had imagined a thousand times.

Old Christoffer handed her a dry cloth, she clutched it firmly as she uncorced the bottle. Shaking, she pressed the cloth against the opening, the sickeningly sweet smell filling her nose nevertheless. It had no colour, not that she could see anyway, as it soaked the cloth and touched her hand. She almost expected it to be cold, or mayhaps even hot- yet it was neither. Somehow, that was worse.

Old Christoffer sank down on Emmerich’s other side, resting his hand against the knight’s gaunt face, pushing some stray hairs from his brow.

Viorel wished she had words to say, hoping somehow that they would reach Emmerich wherever his mind was straying. Something calming, reassuring. There was nothing, only pain. Memories. Songs. The smell of the sea on Tarth blowing through the open door of the Sept of Evenfall Hall where white and purple petals were floating through the air.

The smell of the pine of the crossing with Old Christoffer’s voice wafting through the trees, the people clapping and cheering.

A young knight in a gleaming armour fighting against a man of Dorne, wearing his lady’s favour. Them crying together on this very bed, each holding a little babe in their arms, their foreheads pressed together. Smiling, both their hands bloody, and with tears everywhere- yet they had smiled and laughed.

She stretched out her hand, seeing these laughing faces, hearing them talk about everything and nothing, and caught sight of what remained of all of these memories again.

Her vision blurred with reality, the rain now echoing in these recollections too. The hand with the drenched cloth suddenly came to rest against Emmerich’s face, closing around his mouth and nose. It was scarily easy, Viorel thought, as she watched herself press down.

There was no struggle, Emmerich did not even move.

Her arm and hand felt as if they were detached from her body and mind, doing something without being actually told to.

He should be growing old, with his wife beside him, see his children become men and women as wonderful as himself. Should be heralded as a hero by all the Seven Kingdoms. Remembered. Revered. Honoured.

“I will protect them” she suddenly found herself saying, her voice hoarse and almost silent, “I promise.”

Underneath her arm, where it lay against his chest and his neck, she could feel it first.

The nothingness.

“I promise” Viorel repeated, her hand pulling from his face, dropping the cloth and pressing them both against her face as she started crying again.

He was gone. Forever. Ser Emmerich Hasty would never embrace his children again, would not walk into the woods to pick flowers for his wife. No play-fighting in the village, no dancing between glow worms.

She crumpled from the bed, sinking to the floor. She could hear Old Christoffer get up, too, and then his voice as he called out of the window.

The morning coloured the grey clouds red, pink and gold.

Bowen extinguished his torch, grasping her hand for one moment ere he stepped next to Mattis, Robin and Jon- the four of them now having taken their place next to the simple white casket stood at the foot of the stairs leading into the Hastys home.

A legend said, the casket had been made from a weirwood tree- like the one from the North- and it was to carry Emmerich to his final resting place now, too.

Grasping Adolar’s and Lorelei’s hands, both too young to understand what was happening, Viorel followed as the first one of Wendwater Crossing as the four men carried their friend on their shoulders. Old Christoffer, his dog Clover next to him, followed her suit.

The graveyard of Wendwater Crossing had always reminded Viorel of an orchard, with trees blooming in shades of white, yellow and pink. Wildflowers, rose bushes and wild lilies covered the ground. Yet, a dark patch disrupted the peace and quiet of this place, painfully reminding Viorel of the reason she was here today.

The four men sat the casket down, remaining next to it, their gazes locked on the hard wood.

Viorel swallowed, her throat dry and unyielding. She looked down at the two children next to her- both holding a red dahlia from their backyard in their small hands. Slowly, Viorel stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, eyes following the carved lines in the white wood.

She knelt down, then, uncaring of the wet grass, and softly closed her hands around the small shoulders of Lorelei and Adolar. Cradling them, protecting them though this was nothing she could protect them from. They knew their father was underneath, that he would not return. An everlasting sleep, a spell of sorts. But he was safe, that she had told them.

And their mother? She was hunting the wizard who had cursed their father, of course. The wizard and his dragon.

The two of them reached out, slowly placing the red flowers on the casket- almost immediately turning into her, cuddling closer and she embraced them as she stayed kneeling.

One after the other, her remaining friends stepped forward, each of them carrying a bouquet of red flowers themselves until almost nothing of the white was visible anymore.

No words were spoken for what could you say. Only cruelty, and curses of the gods. But not today, mayhaps not ever.

Viorel stood up, Adolar and Lorelei now with Old Christoffer. She still had to say her goodbyes, and she would remain by Emmerich’s side for this last part, too. As Ostaera would have been.

The men carefully brushed the flowers away, some fluttering into the grave, some blowing in the wind. Viorel took those of the two children, clutching at them, as the lid was opened. Inside, his hair carefully groomed, his hands closed around the hilt of a sword and covered by his wife’s maiden cloak up to the chest, lay Ser Emmerich Hasty.

She had never told him how much he meant to her, not truly. He had become her brother, someone she could trust implicitly. So full of life, and joy and sheer willpower, that is how she wished to remember this man. As the one to defend those weaker than himself, standing with a sword in his hand even when the odds were unbeatable.

Had he felt regret as his back hit the floor, as blood poured from his wounds? Viorel did not think so, for Emmerich had never been a man of regrets.

She hoped, he’d seen Tarth on their wedding day. Had seen his children running circles around his wife, crowns made of flowers in their hair.

Red leather bands were unwrapped from his side, eight in total, and the four men lifted the bier out of the casket. Emmerich did not stir, was not jostled. Oh, how she wished he would now take a gulping breath and get up. But wishes and dreams, they never came true, for there truly was no mercy left in this world.

Carefully, they walked the few feet Viorel watched as they lowered him now down. It seemed unreal, more so than bringing him into the graveyard had.

She bent down, collecting the flowers from the ground inside a white and purple shroud, walking over to the four men when she picked up all of the petals. As they each took one corner of the thin shroud, spreading the thin fabric out over the grave, she held onto the two flowers still. She looked down, looked at the pale, inhumane face of Emmerich then.

He had deserved so much better, so much longer.

The shroud was lowered, soon covering the knight from head to toe, barely concealing the vibrant colours of the maiden cloak. His face was now merely a suggestion of white and purple planes, shadows here and there.

Viorel remembered then, how she had thought what to gift to him on his final journey. His sword, she had placed in a roll of blankets for she wished to take it with her. He still had a son, and Adolar should feel the pride in wielding his father’s blade. A ring and favour, she had placed in a pouch now resting on her hip, for Lorelei to keep close to her heart.

She had also kept the stories in her heart, for she wished to tell them to these children as they grew older- stories of the people she had known, and loved and cherished. Of a man with the willpower of steel, and the humbleness of nature itself, and a heart of gold.

Nay, not gold.

A heart like the sun, spending warmth to all those around him with a value immeasurable. Not vain, not precious like gold was- with a worth assigned to it by mankind. But burning, glowing and beautiful without them.

If Emmerich was the sun, Viorel considered as she crouched down next to his head, then Ostaera had to be the moon. The same, yet somehow different. Ethereal, with a beauty many easily disregarded. A soul of silver thread, strong and comforting. Brave, but a different kind than Emmerich was. Strong in a way only a woman, and a mother, could be strong.

She would be sure, they would be remembered. If not by the world, then at least by their world. Their little stars, dancing and blinking around them through the nights.

The two red dahlias fluttered down, out of her grasp were only the stems remained. One landed on Emmerich’s forehead, the other floating further and to where his neck was.

Out of her cloak, hidden in a small pocket, Viorel pulled out a single red rose she had plucked mere minutes before Wendwater Crossing began their procession. Some of its petals had wilted, but it was no matter. Its beauty was not why she had chosen it, but for its promise. A promise to Emmerich, and to Ostaera, to Adolar and Lorelei.

To herself, too.

She would protect these little stars, shape them into the best they could become. Emmerich mayhaps had died, and Ostaera had sacrificed her life to protect those she loved, but Viorel would find a path to avenge them.

The rose fell down, slipping down beside his head and from view.

As Viorel walked away, her eyes closed for a moment, she could hear shovels being grabbed, earth moved and the finality of it, of dark, wet ground dropping onto the lifeless form of her brother in all but blood, it shook her.

She had been strong this morning, when she had washed his face. She had been strong when they had placed him on the bier, a sword clutched in his hands. She had been strong when Lorelei and Adolar had come running into her arms, not understanding where their mother and father had gone. She had been strong when telling them what they should know, had not shed a single tear for then the ruse would have been up.

But now, it seemed as if all strength and hope had left her veins. Her knees sank to the ground next to an apple tree, the darkest thoughts overtaking her mind.

She should have been quicker that night, should have convinced them to take her instead. Should have been faster to reach Emmerich’s side, yet also stay by Ostaera.

It was her who killed Emmerich, too.

She had believed it to be the right choice- that she knew. But what if she had condemned him? Played at being judge and executioner, a god herself? What if Emmerich would have healed of his own strength?

Her hands dug into the dirt at her knees, her fingers scraping past small roots, as her tears dropped onto the sleeve of her cloak.

What was she to do, without her closest friend guiding her? Without Emmerich here, too, discovering being a parent beside her? The three of them, however different they were, had been a union, inseparable- stronger together than they would ever be on their own. The highborn lady, the maid servant and the landed knight.

Now the lady was to be princess, something Viorel and Ostaera had sometimes spoken of in hushed voices, in the dark of night on Tarth with only the real stars as their witness. Of the grandeur, of sparkling crowns and dresses with velvet trains, of the knights falling over themselves to gain their favour. Even then, they would stand side by side for even in their worst nightmares, fate had never dared breaking them apart.

But it had now.

It had dared killing the only knight that had ever mattered, who was to wear their favour in a tourney.

These children’s dreams had long been forgotten, long been exchanged for visions of Wendwater Crossing and all its small glories. Crowns had become unimportant, surviving and feeding their village had been instead.

Should they not have thought of such things? Had they invited the evil into their lives?

Viorel opened her eyes, forcing herself through the vision of eyes blue like the seas around Tarth, of eyes green like the firs of the Crossing. Eyes that would haunt her; that she simply knew.

As she rose to her feet, her knees shaking and almost pulling her down once more, she turned to look back at where not only her best friend would rest until the worlds ending but where her own past was to be buried alongside him. Red petals, dark and bright, all the shades between the finest wine and the gleaming of the rising sun on a stormy day, blew through the ever steady breeze between the trees, catching the slivers of sunlight breaking through the thicket.

For the first time, Viorel smiled. It was not a big grin, not careless or even hopeful, but it appeared nonetheless. The truth that at least Emmerich would rest in true peace, far from the worries awaiting the living, it had to be her shield now. The only respite from her dark thoughts lay in the knowledge that neither kings, nor lords nor gods would disturb him here.

Mayhaps, those Gods of the North, living in the trees, would remember Emmerich, too?

A hand grasped her own, and she looked up to see Bowen, sweet Bown, looking down at her. He had never seemed older than right this moment, with tears unshed and dried on his skin, his usual grey-brown eyes so dull it broke her a bit further.

“We are done” his voice was low, hoarse and deep, “The best of us. He was…always the best of us.”

Without hesitation, Viorel wrapped herself around him, letting him sink into her while drowning herself. Arms curled around her, from waist to shoulder, around her hip, and she grasped the back of his doublet so harshly, she almost ripped it.

Her hands slipped up, to cradle the back of his head, his forehead resting on her shoulder while silent cries shook this man. She did not know whether she herself stood still, or was shaking so harshly on her own she could not feel it.

One moment, Viorel wondered whether she would ever stop feeling shaken, broken. Shattered, scattered in the blowing winds.

Not even anger could pull her together.

“Do you know” Bown mumbled, she could feel his breath against the skin of her neck, “Do you know what the worst is?”

Viorel nodded, somehow she did know.

“You want to be angry” she whispered into his shoulder, “Just…it would be right, to be angry.”

“Just to feel something” Bown added, his voice breaking in the middle of the word feel. As if his body had already forgotten what feeling anything besided pain truly was like, and had thus rejected the notion.

“Warm. Everything’s so cold. At least hatred, and anger- they burn.”

She was rambling, and she did not care. Neither did Bowen, grasping what she wished to tell him without her having to say anything.

She could not name it today, not like she had been able to for the last moon turns. Not when she had seen the only happiness torn apart, had seen and experienced true love so bright, so beautiful, it had made her believe in stories of princesses and knights again.

If she did not name it today, it could not be taken from her. Could not be sullied by it.

Mayhaps, she was a craven. Then, so be it. If being a craven ensured her survival, their survival it would have to be enough.

“They say it’s cold up North. Cold and quiet” Bowen said after they had remained silent for what felt like an eternity, safe and sound within each other

New tears.

Leaving, it was necessary to keep Adolar and Lorelei alive.

It also meant leaving everything behind.

“I don’t want to forget them” Viorel sobbed, “What if I forget them when we leave?”

“We’ll remember them together” he pulled back ever so slightly, pressing his forehead to hers, their eyes now a mere hair’s breadth from one another.

“Together” she echoed, almost not hearing herself say the word.

It was so easy to fit the entirety of her life at Wendwater Crossing onto the back of a cart. Two little children bundled amidst simple boxes and straw, still confused and brave, not quite grasping what was going on.

Viorel stood, wrapped in her old traveling cloak, next to Bowen and the horses Ostaera and Emmerich had been gifted on their wedding day. In front of them, the Crossing had assembled, everyone holding onto someone else. No one stood alone, except for Old Christoffer.

She knew the village had been praying for all those nights and days when Emmerich had lain in his bed, never giving up hope quite yet. It was different now. Everyone seemed older now, paler, and gaunter. A part of each and every one of them had died that night, when their Lord Baratheon had betrayed their trust.

No one spoke, no words could be said that had not already been exchanged.

Viorel’s gaze settled on the house that stood empty now, its turquoise shutters nailed shut. The blood had been cleaned from the steps, the door closed with wooden bars. It looked serene, almost, if you were to look upon it without knowing what had happened here.

She remembered the letter, rolled into a bottle hanging from the bannister next to the porch, for any friend of Ser Emmerich. Sending it by raven would have been to dangerous, and knowing Ser Alesan, he would have stormed the Red Keep by himself to avenge his friend.

Viorel almost wished she had that same strength, to simply walk up to the _King of the Seven Kingdoms_ and stab him. Or burn him down, strangle him with bare hands. Any of it.

It would mean another broken promise. Another life taken, for she would surely be sentenced to death for treason herself.

If it brought Emmerich back…

But it would not.

One last time, Viorel took in the entirety of the Crossing before her. A place she had called home, that she had wanted to call home for the rest of her life. As she climbed unto the cart, with Bowen next to her, she listened to the Wendwater behind the row of houses. To the birds singing in the trees, bees humming through the flowers.

It was not the same, it all rang hollow- hurt rather than healed.

The cart set into motion in the muddy ground, the finality of the movement almost made Viorel get up and run back. To where, she did not know- home?

But where was her home?

On Tarth, with its hidden seaside caves, and stain glass windows?

In the Stormlands?

Ostaera had been her home, truly. Her laughter, her wit, her intelligence. Her strength.

Mayhaps, Viorel thought in despair, even in the North she could feel at home for she knew that the Seven Kingdoms would one day have the greatest woman as their Queen.

The lie did not help.

She grasped at the little memento in the pocket of her dress, sown into the fabric as if it were the most precious gemstones.

As they left the Crossing ever northwards, Viorel recalled her favourite memories of Ostaera and Emmerich, in every vivid detail. She pushed the pain aside, it was necessary.

She would not forget them, could not forget.

How Ostaera and her had made soap, and thrown the lavender-smelling water at one another. How her and Emmerich had baked bread, eating more of the dough than anything else.

Sowing in the garden, eating at the table in the village.

No, how could she ever forget them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter!  
> If you liked it (hard, I know), please leave a Kudos or a comment. Feeling generous? Do both.
> 
> Usually, I write some questions or about my own thoughts on certain scenes down here. But not this time, I did not think a lot, I was mostly feeling and trying to hit the right buttons on my keyboard.   
> For anyone wanting to write such a chapter, I recommend listening to "It's Quiet Uptown" from the musical Hamilton on repeat. That helps.
> 
> Keep safe out in the world, there is a lot going on right now. 
> 
> RIP Emmerich. You deserved better (and I'll probably write some One-Shots with you as the protagonist). 
> 
> That is it from me. The next PoV will not be lighter, since it will most likely be Ostaera. Maybe afterwards, I'll write something a bit more joyful. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	15. Ostaera IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She wanted to stand underneath the trees in the Godswood with drops streaming down her face, so that she might cry even though her body could not anymore. To hear thunder rumble overhead, so her soul might scream. To see lightning tear the sky to pieces, so her heart might pray._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> Even though the world is on fire (both literal and metaphorical), and even though the chapters of this Fanfic are not what I would call uplifting, I hope we all can enjoy them for whatever we need or want.  
> For myself, this past week was taxing emotionally and mentally (experiments not working and a ticking clock in your head counting to a dead line), but also rather rewarding- talking with a friend about topics both political, social and metaphysical was a breath of fresh air. 
> 
> Writing this chapter took me some time, and especially the beginning was hard since I couldn't find the right words to say. To get into the mindset of someone so far down, so far gone was difficult, but also cathartic. 
> 
> Before I start my post-chapter rambles at the beginning _already_...well
> 
> Without further ado,   
> Let's get right into today's chapter.

# Ostaera IV

The looking glass was framed in wrought iron, flying dragons with rubies for eyes spreading their wings across the red sand stone walls behind it.

Everything was black and red.

Ostaera just sat there, on the upholstered chair, and stared right on ahead- through the looking glass, through herself.

Lorelei.

Adolar.

Emmerich.

If she just repeated their names, she might not forget them.

If she said their names, they could live on. Somewhere in her heart, though, it felt as if she herself was barely alive anymore.

They could not be gone.

 _He_ could not be gone.

Some nights, Ostaera awoke and could hear Emmerich’s voice call out over the waves of the Bay. Nothing much, just her name over and over again. Sometimes it vanished again, sometimes it became so loud it seemed to break through her head like a sword.

No, no swords.

Ostaera closed her eyes to shut out the sound of clashing blades, of that _groan_ which echoed through her every waking moment.

Dark green eyes flashed in her vision, then, looking over a shoulder back at her with only a shimmer of light catching on his reddish hair.

Standing in a doorway.

Standing, always standing.

Emmerich would not kneel.

Her strong knight.

There were no tears, and Ostaera wondered whether the stone of the Red Keep would stay permanently stained with her pain.

Whether the feeling of being so numb, you wondered if you were actually alive, would stay for the rest of her life. It was in her heart, in her head- in her spine. Cold.

Always cold.

Two knights in white, their cloaks burning her eyes with their brightness, opened the door as a knock sounded through the room and Ostaera did not look at them.

Kingsguard.

That’s what they were called, but to her they seemed more akin to gaolers than guards. Meant to keep her inside these halls, as if she had the strength to run.

As if that would make a difference anymore.

It did not matter what she did, there was no way out.

Oh, how she wished to turn back the sands of time. To go, leave.

But her wish was not granted.

“My lady” the young woman in the dark purple gown addressed her, a black stole made of charmeuse wrapped tightly around her slim shoulders.

Ostaera turned her head, watching as the woman stepped inside, her fingers twisting in the ends of her long dark hair.

There was a moment of silence, until Ostaera regained her good graces.

“I am afraid…I do not know who you are…”

If the girl was shocked by her lack of refined words, she did not say so. Her face did not betray any feelings either. Therefore she either was quite used to such treatment, or had been raised with the expectation of every possible situation.

“Do not worry, my lady. I am Lady Ashara Dayne, your lady in waiting. If you’ll have me.”

“Oh.”

Ostaera turned her head away from Lady Ashara, grasping at the chair she was sitting on to hold on to something. She felt as if she was falling through a bottomless pit, deeper and deeper.

A lady in waiting.

She could hear Viorel reprimand her after she had torn a dress, hear her laughing as they practiced dancing in the dining hall of Evenfall Hall at night. Viorel had wanted to learn it quite desperately, just like she yearned to know everything about the world.

But Ostaera could not wonder what had happened to her friend, the dearest and best of them. Pain was wrapping itself around her lungs, squeezing _something_ out of her.

“I do not mean to replace someone, my lady” Lady Ashara continued, now striding in with confidence and kneeling down beside Ostaera, “I know what was done to you, and I am here now because I wish to help you.”

Hands wrapped themselves around her own, clasping them warmly.

It made her forget the memories chasing in her head for just one moment, enough to look at the young lady next to her, her violet eyes and rounded but delicate features. The earnestness, the genuine sincerity- it shocked her.

“I know, I am not your family. But I will endeavour to be what you need me to be, I promise.”

“What” Ostaera rasped, returning the gentle pressure of her hand, “What if I cannot…I do not wish to use you.”

“Then you will not. We cannot stand alone” Lady Ashara rose to her feet, and Ostaera noticed the dark suns embroidered onto her samite dress, pierced by a spear.

“I will not replace the one you lost” Ostaera then said, rising herself, still holding onto the lady’s hands. She was some four inches taller than Lady Ashara, and now she could see the dark circles under her eyes, hidden beneath the same colours used to hide her own pain from the world.

Lady Ashara nodded, looking past Ostaera out of the balcony, and took some deep breaths.

Suddenly, not quite sure why, Ostaera pulled her into an embrace so tight it was on the verge on suffocating. Yet Lady Ashara did not seem to mind, her own arms wrapping around Ostaera as if the pressure from them alone would make her splintered pieces mend together.

She did not know for how long the two of them simply stood there, caught up in one another, when another knock broke the silence.

“My ladies, your presence is requested by the King” the knight with the bat on his helmet said, sombre and dark as if they were to be executed.

He was not alone in that sentiment, and Ostaera felt panic pulse through her, pushing away every thought she had just held onto. She felt empty, emptier than before, as if her heart and head had locked all that was _her_ into a lockbox, the key now thrown into the roaring seas.

Lady Ashara turned around, offering her elbow to Ostaera without breaking eye contact. There was a will of Valyrian steel hiding in these purple eyes, but Ostaera still felt like glass. Held together only by a cage of rusty iron, caged- a diatreta.

Swallowing roughly, longing for a sip of anything, her hand now holding onto Lady Ashara, Ostaera slowly stepped forward into the corridor of red sandstone, blood red marble tiles and arched windows.

It stretched ahead of her, long and endless, her gown weighing heavily on her shoulders, dust ruffles dragging along the floor behind her. Necklaces of ruby pearls dripping from her neck like blood. Hairpins of darkened steel sticking in her hair like blades in the Iron Throne.

A Throne she was meant to bow in front of, to swear her fealty to this… _king_.

To accept his sentence.

Others would celebrate in the streets today, but Ostaera wanted every storm of these lands to envelop the city. Not out of anger- there was no anger- but she wanted to listen to the rain in the leaves.

She wanted to stand underneath the trees in the Godswood with drops streaming down her face, so that she might cry even though her body could not anymore. To hear thunder rumble overhead, so her soul might scream. To see lightning tear the sky to pieces, so her heart might pray.

Instead she was steadily walking towards the Throne Room, so that the king might announce the betrothal of his eldest son to a daughter of the realm.

She could not scoff, could not raise her eyebrow at her own thoughts. No muscle on her face moved, her voice silent.

With each step, her head seemed to plummet further and further into its own void, not even the sounds of armour clanking or her own footsteps reaching her. Instead, a loud, shrill tone ebbed and flowed into her ear.

There was no cold anymore, yet no warmth either.

The path ahead of her was well lit, sconces and sunlight flooding it, yet it seemed dark to her.

It was dizzying, yet somehow she did not stumble, kept going and walking as if pulled by a string around her neck.

Her heart beat through her, rising higher and higher until she could hear it in her head, drowning out the shrill tone.

A set of closed double doors, as high as the arching ceiling, now faced her- set inside seven archways inscribed with phrases in High Valyrian, with dragons circling around them- its black wood polished, old yet flawless.

Dragons made of dark Steel, their eyes of an odd stone with purple shimmering in its depths, were wrapped around the thick handles, facing one another. A third dragon head was set in steel above the doors, facing those who sought entry. Golden shimmers reflected off of it, like flames on a blade, and a crown was seated on it.

The two Kingsguard, their white cloaks oddly dull against the doors, stepped past her, each grasping one of the handles and with a loud sound, a sound breaking through Ostaera’s heartbeat like an arrow, the doors were pushed open.

Voices, hundreds of them, suddenly stopped as their faces turned to them. Fans were opened, a shocked murmur now resuming as the crowd parted further from the centre. 

Ostaera could feel her eyes flitting over the Great Hall, but she could see nothing, until her gaze caught on it. The Iron Throne, high and dark against a window, a man in red seated atop.

As the man rose from his seat, something kicked and screamed inside her, wanting her to turn around. Yet, it never made her feet move.

Someone was clearing their throat, and Ostaera almost startled. Almost, instead she merely turned her head to where the man was now bowing to her.

A crown was resting on his brow, no spikes, only rubies inlaid in a pattern on blackened metal. His long crimson velvet cloak was falling around him, closed with a dragon pin, and as he rose to his full height, Ostaera had to tilt her head back ever so slightly.

He might be called beautiful, ethereal even, this Crown Prince but she could not think of any words. So she remained silent, as her manners brought her into a low curtsy. Her muscles seemed to almost ache as stood once more, yet even they were not enough to make her feel quite real. As if she was merely an observer, watching someone act and live while she herself could hide. Where, she did not know, but it was no matter. 

The Prince said some words that did not reach her, as she found herself staring through him. 

She nodded nonetheless, as it seemed he had nothing else to add, instead he offered his arm.

The Great Hall seemed to get larger with every step Ostaera took inside, her head not wavering to look towards the courtiers, and instead set on a stair of the Iron Throne ahead.

The face of the man who had condemned her was growing clearer, from where he stared down at the approaching pair, his crown lopsided, and his purple eyes glinting with madness.

The King almost cackled, the sound grating into Ostaera nonetheless, ripping at the lockbox. Tearing at the seams of the curtain she had pulled, flashes of dark green eyes and his voice now growing ever present.

The feeling of his hands in hers, of his lips, the sound of his laughter. His smell.

His name- _their_ name.

For one moment, glorious and safe, she was standing next to him, in front of a High Priest in a white and blue marble hall, streamers made of flowers and silk wrapped around painted wooden arches.

But as the Priest opened his mouth, it was not his voice floating happily through the air, and it broke her dream- no, her memory.

“Lords, ladies” the King waved his arms in a gesture of grandeur through the air, “Members of my Small Council. Ere court will be dismissed, there is one further announcement to be had today. An announcement that will change the course of history!”

No one applauded, but the King was unperturbed and Ostaera could not let her eyes leave him as this man was speaking her sentence.

“For a bride has been found for my son, the Crown Prince, who will ensure the continuation of this most royal blood line.”

His hands wrapped around one of the sword hilts, steadying himself, as a grin encompassed his entire visage, the lighting making him seem more skull-like and dead than he was. Oh no, this King was quite alive, brimming with it even.

“I present to you, the Realm, the Lady Ostaera of House Tarth. She will become Crown Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Ostaera stared at the King, past him and through the tips of the Seven Pointed Star behind him. A crown of bones, built on a kingdom of lies for a Princess made of nothing but tears.

“The Lady of Dragonstone.”

A heart of stone, a soul of lead.

“The future of House Targaryen!”

Fire and Blood.

Cheers roared through the Great Hall like flames, as the courtiers had caught onto what their King had proclaimed, their high spirits soaring through the air.

As their joy licked at Ostaera’s heels, soaking through her dress, she could feel the shaking in her limbs stop. As if someone had now started turning the key to her clockwork form, her head bowed, offering her neck to the King as her arms flared out beside her, spreading her skirts in a low curtsy.

Even more cheers, the doors now opening behind her once more, and she could hear their excited chit-chat echoing into the hallways outside. The sun had not yet set, the afternoon session ending some hours before dinner, and yet Ostaera wished the day would just end.

But she was not free to go about, not like these lords and ladies, she was now chained to the man beside her.

For who would oppose a King, who would hear his order and choose to not follow it? There was no man in this world this true, and noble.

As the King leaned back into his Throne, seemingly talking to the air, a group of men and a single woman approached.

The woman, Ostaera recognized easily, for it was the Queen Rhaella herself, the one who had entered her little prison first who had kept vigil night after night, sitting beside her on the bed with caring hands and soft words.

She was dressed much like her son, her dress slim and high-collared, the crown perched in her coiled hair intricate and delicate, yet imposing and piercing. Her violet eyes were averted, looking down demurely, as her hands clasped in front of her.

The men seemed all rather keen on avoiding her, none seeking to greet her with more than a polite bow none of which she answered. One man, however, remained standing in front of her, his eyebrow raised and his green eyes, so much brighter and crueller than Emmerich’s had ever been, boring into her own expectantly. But not openly so, but rather with a sense of detachment as if she were beneath him.

Viorel would have been enraged, yet Ostaera found herself not caring about his disposition.

“My lady” Prince Rhaegar spoke, and for the first time Ostaera could hear his voice. It was fitting for a prince, and fitting for him, too. Not deep, yet not boyish either. She remembered the rumours of what a fine singer he was, and imagined it was indeed a pleasant experience.

Yet, she did not find it remarkable but rather expected. Not extraordinary, not recognizable.

“May I introduce you to the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin of House Lannister.”

It was not a question, and Ostaera remembered finding this way of introduction always funny, having to hold back a silly laugh when someone used such a roundabout way of saying someone’s name.

She did not find it funny, or silly now.

There was no Viorel to share her secret smile with, no Emmerich to underline words with exaggerated arm movements.

There was nothing for her to feel, as she returned the curt nod to the Hand.

Lord Lannister did not acknowledge her any further, merely striding past her imperiously, a small man in dark robes following hurriedly behind him.

“Mayhaps we should head outside for some…air” the Queen proposed, a strained smile on her lips as she broke the cold silence in the hall.

Ostaera was lead through a door, catching one last look at the King where he remained atop the Iron Throne laughing louder and louder with each step they took. It send shivers of icy spikes down her spine, grating on her like claws.

The first thing she saw, as the wrought iron gates were opened for them, was the blue sea with the sun reflecting off of the waves.

Trees lined the outer wall, some high and thin, others with broad crowns.

Ostaera grasped at a hand rail as they descended the wide marble steps into the clearly lined thicket of blooming bushes, seemingly unorganized yet clearly thought through. Unlike the true chaos of Wendwater Crossing.

Were there glowworms here, too?

It was beautiful, she could see it, but it did not reach her. As if she was separated from it by a veil.

The Queen lead the way, alone and ahead of them, and it seemed even the littlest weed rushed to make way for her. Ostaera stared at her back, where red cords held her gown closed, and watched her almost dance over the gravel, wisps of her hair floating in the breeze.

As if she did not quite belong in this place either, and Ostaera found herself understanding the Queen with the only clear thought she could formulate today.

A servant rushed past, only halting to bow to the Queen who in turn stopped to nod to him.

The man smiled, caught off guard, and a blush crept up his neck until he stumbled on, turning back to look at Queen Rhaella ever so often.

Rhaegar snorted, and Ostaera almost did not hear the sound- a sound so base it seemed to break the façade of Crown Prince. She turned her face to look at Prince Rhaegar now, where he in turn was looking at the servant, and she noticed the almost sickly pallor of his skin. The shadows beneath his almond shaped eyes, almost too symmetrical, framed by long, dark lashes.

He was beautiful, indeed, but she could see it for the mask it was. Mayhaps, she would never have noticed it before but on a day such as this, with herself locked so far away, it was almost screaming at her.

He turned to her, and she did not break the gaze as she would have with Emmerich when they first met. For what was she to be shy about? She was not even here.

The Prince seemed caught off-guard, his eyes widening in surprise to find her staring at him without relent. Trying to pierce his armour, to look whether he was as empty as she felt.

She did not want to marry him, she wished she had never met him, but to find him more than a statue of perfect marble was her only hope.

Hope, that was quite the wrong word to use and yet the only word she could use. Ostaera did not hope anymore, not with everything she had ever wished for, everything good that life had to offer taken and destroyed.

Finally, the Queen stopped as they reached a little pavilion of red sandstone, with ivy and wild grapes overgrowing the pillars. Blooming oleanders and roses stood guard at the entrance, now joined by the two members of the Kingsguard.

As she turned, Ostaera could see Lady Ashara clasp her hand around the forearm of one of them.

Was she sweet on him?

Only then did Ostaera notice that this particular Kingsguard was wearing a black cloak, embroidered with the same suns of House Martell as Lady Ashara’s were. She also noticed the blade hanging from his belt, long and unmistakably Dawn.

The ancestral sword of House Dayne.

Not a lover then, but siblings.

How she missed Astraeon.

Her parents.

She was only glad that Selwyn was not here, for he would indeed pull his sword to challenge the king- fool that he was.

Someone pulled her into an embrace, and Ostaera let those tears fall, and with each a sliver of a prayer escaped her mind, calling out soundlessly.

Why could she not save them?

Memories of quiet nights, of loud mornings.

Lorelei and Adolar, snuggling up to them in the cold of the Crossing, looking up at the stars above. Each one a different name each night.

Emmerich telling her that she was the only star he needed, her slapping him and calling him silly.

Foreheads pressing against each other, almost kissing and yet not.

Had it all been a dream? It was wonderful, tender and…home- how could it all be gone?

She wanted to go home.

Anywhere but here.

Her fingers tried to rid her of the strong body holding her close, yet they never seemed to be able to get away, holding onto it with renewed desperation instead.

Only the waves rushing to meet the shore could be heard for the longest time, and as she listened to it, Ostaera felt herself calm somewhat. Pulling those pieces of her that had lashed out back, putting them in the little lockbox again, now closed more securely.

Mayhaps she was not truly calm, then, she pondered as she stepped out of the hold of Prince Rhaegar- mayhaps she was merely less once more.

Less was safe.

The Queen was now sitting in a high backed chair, and it looked more like a Throne than the one in the Great Hall did, with cathedral bells wrapped around and blooming in shades of white and yellow.

Leaning forward, Queen Rhaella beckoned them all to take a seat. Prince Rhaegar waited until Lady Ashara had sat down next to Ostaera until he chose the one opposite of them.

After a moment, the Queen spoke, her voice strong but gentle. Wary, a testament to all the unseen fights she had been asked to wage.

“We all know, this marriage will not be a happy one. There will be no love between the two of you, not for quite some time.”

Prince Rhaegar looked down, almost ashamed.

“My husband has elected to become the cruellest, most despicable version of himself, so we would do best to not underestimate his plans. Neither the plans of the Small Council or Lord Lannister.”

She pressed the tips of her fingers together, resting on her forearms.

“I do not expect you to be a version of yourself you are not, Lady Ostaera. You might not feel it, but there will be space for you to mourn your husband and children. Unperturbed, without judgement for as long as…not as you wish, but as long as is needed.”

Ostaera nodded.

“The Realm, however, expects something out of this wedding and betrothal even if we know it to be a sham. It is a show of splendour, of the power that still lies in House Targaryen. It means, there can be no weakness. I know, I am asking too much of you, my lady, yet…there is one thing we must do. To protect us all, from the wrath of my husband and the scheming of those men around us.

There can be no dissent, no pain, no sadness whenever not in private. The court cannot know of what we cry for, our people cannot know what dreams we buried.”

It had been real, those last years of her life- and yet it seemed as if they had to become nothing more than a figment of her imagination. Did she have to become a woman with no memories of the happiest moments in her life? With no memories of _her life_ at all? Merely dreams of a silly young girl, fashioned from painted glass?

What of her scars, of the calluses on her hands, of the marks from giving birth twice?

Were they to be buried too? A prisoner in her own head from today till the day she would finally re-join those she loved?

A day forever too far away.

“I will not force you into what you do not wish” Prince Rhaegar suddenly said, looking at her in earnest, “There might not be love between us, but if you are in need of a friend- I shall be that friend to you. No matter your feelings towards me, now or ever, should you have need of me...”

Ostaera looked through him for a moment, then found his gaze again, locked onto hers much like she had done earlier.

“I do not hate you, Prince Rhaegar, but I do not feel much of anything at this moment. Thus, I cannot promise to be your friend, I cannot promise to value your opinions or listen to your advice. I cannot foresee whether I shall hate you, or loath you, or indeed be a friend” her voice hurt, talking hurt, and trying to string the turmoil of feelings and nothingness into something one could understand, hurt too.

He merely nodded.

“Silence will kill you” Queen Rhaella added, “With the two of us, and with each other, be as honest as you can be. There is too much pain you have experienced to merely shrug it off, and I fear for what you will become if wounds are left to fester.”

Be better than them, it was left unsaid.

Ostaera was uncertain whether she could be better than anything, if there would be something of her left at the end of...well, there need be an end first.

“Will there be a feast tonight?” Lady Ashara asked, her purple eyes flitting between them and the garden behind the ivy rapidly.

“Indeed” the Queen inclined her head, “The King as ordered the finest coursed to be prepared in anticipation of the arrival of the bride’s immediate family. I expect…I expect another speech to be held, for I have heard him mumble to himself.”

“It does not bode well.”

“No, it does not. When we were younger, and a great many masquerades were held in these very halls, he would spin legends, children’s stories and fairy tales into a narrative he found…worthy, or engaging. That he will do again, however his twisted mind will fit it together. I do not know what he has created in his head, and I would not be surprised if he truly thinks this tale to be true.”

“You say…” Ostaera rasped, “You say he does not know what he has done to my family?”

She slowly got up, her head swimming in dark clouds.

“That might very well be the case.”

Ostaera turned around.

How could someone order a family destroyed, man and children _killed_ , and not remember?

“Is this some game to him?”

No answers, only silence.

A game, then- played with lives and dreams and hopes, for what? A throne? Power? _Fun_?

Oh, how she wished he would remember and be tormented by those memories she could not rid out of her mind for the days she had been here.

The cries, the groans, her own screams so loud and unrelenting they hurt. The smell of blood, mixing with those of wet pine trees and rain in the heavy air. Of a lord in yellow and black, his men crushing her shoulders.

Of two children crying through the night, so loud and desperate, of a young woman slapping and fighting and _not giving up_.

Emmerich Hasty.

EMMERICH HASTY, her mind screamed as it stood in front of a laughing king.

But the king still laughed, and her anger faded into nothing again, recoiling into its hiding place.

Adolar and Lorelei, it whispered, hollow like a last breath taken on this plane.

Not even her hatred burned bright enough.

She had become winter, though there was no fury in her storms.

House Tarth had chosen the Sun and Moon for its sigil, on turquoise and pink- the shades of the sky at dawn and dusk. Not truly red, not truly blue.

Thus, Ostaera was not truly white either, nor truly the black of House Targaryen. Instead there was only grey.

Grey would be her, and it would be safe. It could become anything she needed it to be, it could make her survive even though she truly did not wish to anymore.

A player of her own with nothing left to lose, an actress on the stage of her life.

One day, either through sheer force or by death, she might become more than a pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter!   
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment (or both, if you're feeling generous).  
> It is kind of odd to me that we reached 2k views this past week- for someone from small beginnings (I started on a rather off-the-beaten-path German Website for Harry Potter which shut down some years ago), it's surreal. I know, that that's not a lot in terms of Ao3, but knowing that people enjoy my writing will always mean a lot to me.   
> I cherish each of you, those who comment (and I love reading and answering them), those who leave Kudos and those who do neither but still engage with the story.   
> So again, a big thank you to all of you <3 
> 
> In regards to the chapter, let's get into some of my thoughts on it/questions for you.
> 
> As I said at the beginning, writing someone who is so down was not quite as easy as I expected. Especially since Ostaera was hard to grasp in my head, since she had no path like Viorel did- Viorel killing Emmerich and the subsequent funeral were rather involved for her character, we got to experience her emotions while she had to continue with her life. I did not want _this chapter_ to give off the impression that life for Ostaera stopped so she could mourn her family, thus the introduction of Lady Ashara. **What did you make of their first meeting?** There are some rather open statement all throughout this chapter, and it starts with her promise of being there for Ostaera. **Was that too much?** In my first version of this chapter, it was actually Rhaella who came to visit Ostaera for some late-night talking, but it didn't really stick. 
> 
> Next up, Ostaera walks through the Red Keep and panic starts building up. For someone who's most stressfull moments in life were exams, I hope **I captured the feeling of someone heading into the dragon's den well?** The only parts from my first draft that stayed was the paragraph about standing in the Godswoord so she could cry even though her body could not anymore. **Did that help or was it too sappy?**
> 
> I am a sucker for descriptions of clothes and places, so I tried to incorporate that into Ostaera's PoV- **Was that a good amount of scene setting, or should I be more mindful of such things?**
> 
> Also, as the doors swing open and Ostaera stands shell shocked at the centre, we have our first Rhaegar/Ostaera interaction and I know there is not much to go on here. **What do you think of it? Was it what you expected? How did it fit with Ostaera's emotions at that point in time?**
> 
> I thought about having Ostaera faint or have an entire flash-back sequence during the scene in the Great Hall, but it somehow did not want to stick. Instead, we have Aerys (which no one truly wants) announcing the betrothal. I wanted it to be a grand scene, but still feel detached somewhat. **What did you make of it, especially the words Ostaera thinks as Aerys speaks?**  
>  We get another first: Tywin makes an introduction and gets nothing in return because Ostaera is basically numb. **Opinions?**
> 
> Somehow, I always end up in the garden- or rather in Rhaella's little safe space. It's my personal walk-and-talk, it seems, and I know it is rather risky for them to have such conversations out in the open like that. But they just keep coming. This time, Rhaella opens the discussion on what the marriage is going to mean and what it entails. How they basically have to put on a show because no one can assume they're unhappy- the perfect couple etc. The mosit poignant moment, to me, was Ostaera telling Rhaegar how she might hate him whenever she truly is herself again. **Do you think that is in character? How well will the little charade go over? How do you expect their relationship to go? ******
> 
> ****At the end, I wrapped some of Aerys' madness into this whole mess- however in a different way. Not his cruelty, which Rhaella mentioned earlier, but how he thinks in fairy tales and stories. **When he holds his speech at the dinner, what tale do you expect him to spin?**** **
> 
> ****That is it from me. The next PoV will be something more light hearted, most likely seeing what shenanigans Elia is up to. Or, maybe, we're heading North but not in the way you think. We're into autumn now, feels right to take a look at what the Starks are doing.** **
> 
> ****With that, I bid you adieu.  
>  Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird** **


	16. Rhaegar IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It seemed, the wedding bells on the morrow would ring not only for the upcoming union of two people who did not love on another, but signal the war to end all wars.  
>  Winter was coming. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello and Welcome back,  
>  It's been ~a while~ since I've posted, which is entirely the fault of my bachelor thesis being under way at the moment.   
> There are somethings I will get into at the End, so look forward to that I guess. It's gonna be fun._
> 
> _At the beginning of this chapter there will be a time jump, I've essentially moved us four months up in the timeline- which is also the reason why we have another Rhaegar chapter. Elia Fans, don't worry, we'll get to her in no time. Reasons will be given at the end!  
>  A little fair warning: the pace in the chapter itself is rather slow, I've noticed it while writing it but (as with GRRM) the devil's in the details._
> 
> _Without further ado, however,  
>  Let's get right into today's chapter. _

# Rhaegar IV

The courtyard was decorated with colourful flags, every sigil of the seven Lord Paramounts dancing on silver twine, wound between wooden poles and several large baldaquins.

In little alcoves sat musicians, their instruments creating a din of sounds and melodies that wove a canopy of romantic beauty. The lords and ladies of the court were chatting amicably, unperturbed by the terror the Crown Prince felt. Some smiled dazedly at him, fully believing the words his father had said those three moon turns ago.

_“A love forged, starcrossed and unattainable.”_

It had been a pretty picture, what the King had painted then. Of a young man, destined for greatness, and a young woman, shunned and hidden away. There was no mention of the pain the woman had endured, only of letters exchanged, secret vows made in the shade of trees Rhaegar had never seen.

A great play, his father had written and performed for his court who were in awe of this king of theirs, for once not in throes of madness but instead a calm grandeur oozing from his figure. Not speaking from atop his abominable Throne, and instead standing on the marble stage of the ball room with candles flickering behind painted glass.

For that one night, framed by the numbness of the Lady Ostaera and the horror in his own heart, Rhaegar had glimpsed at the man his father had once been. The man he could have become. Yet, like the dreams the prince had had for all his life, this man vanished with the light of day.

Even the queen had seemed surprised- watchful, disbelieving- but surprised all the same. She had worn white for the first time in months, years even. Had smiled the bashful smile of a lady of a proud house, with something like stars in her eyes.

It never lasted.

As Rhaegar wove his way through the small crowd, with dusk slowly settling over King’s Landing, and the little paper lanterns now glowing like little suns of their own, he tried to calm his frantic heart.

It was the most important night yet, only overshadowed by the events it preceded- a royal wedding!

He had heard the celebrations in the streets today, as he had crept down into the city to play his harp, to escape the madness of Aegon’s Hill.

There stood the Great Sept of Baelor, glistening in the sun, its pillars wrapped in golden ivy and red wild wine, a black carpet rolled down the sandstone steps by a group of laughing men. As Rhaegar slipped past unseen, he caught some of the words they uttered.

A new age, they said, for their most royal family. There was talk of love, paralleled only by the likes of Florian and Jonquil.

The girls running past Rhaegar had worn crowns fashioned out of paper and fabric flowers, and alongside the dragon of his house had fluttered the banner of Tarth.

The merchant’s streets were alive with shouts, and new designs being presented with a fervour unlike any Rhaegar had ever experienced. Not even the announcement of little Jaehaerys’ birth had warranted their unbridled joy, it seemed.

They did not know, he had to remind himself, as he watched the swathes of blue and pink cloth, woven with gold and silver thread, being sold.

They did not know, he thought now, too, as the singers picked up their songs and “The Seasons of My Love” reached his ears.

Reaching the high table, well before his father and mother, he was greeted by the Small Council who had taken their seats instead of the royal family.

Lord and Lady Tarth had not arrived either, and Rhaegar was glad for seeing their helplessness broke a different part of his soul every time.

They never looked at him, unlike Lady Ostaera, avoided him clearly.

However, other members of House Tarth had found their way to the table the same time as Rhaegar had, and the crown prince swallowed in anticipation.

He recognized Lord Astraeon, his betrothed’s twin brother, with his blond hair long and bound back, a silver chest plate engulfing his broad form. His wife’s hand was wrapped around the leather vambraces, holding his arm still, while she smiled at passers-by with a lightness the belied the hatred seething underneath the surface.

They looked more like a prince and princess than Rhaegar had ever felt.

Mayhaps not with an ethereal beauty that singers and poets always sang about with his own family, but there was strength in their unrefined likeness. Nothing delicate, and breakable, but a steadiness in the way they talked and moved.

Punished for nothing, without a crime committed, and nonetheless they had bowed before the king. Sworn their loyalty, expressed gratitude.

How could they not, with the entire realm not knowing the truth? For every man and woman aware of the goings on, there were a hundred-thousand rejoicing at this lie.

Why risk war with a strong House over Tarth? There were no sapphires in its caves, only water in its waves and tears.

Without greeting the people he was supposed to be a family to, Rhaegar sat in the chair on his father’s right, high-backed and painted black.

No one approached him, and instead he watched as he preferred.

He could see Arthur moving between the rows of Dornishmen in attendance, still in blacks and greys. Dorne would be mourning its princess for centuries, openly and with all the heart no other Kingdom under his father’s reign would ever afford.

There was the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell, her eyes flitting between the Small Council members and catching his own for a moment. She raised her cup, filled with wine from the Arbor, and he raised his in return.

House Lannister was in attendance in its entirety, all golden hair and red robes, seated next to a delegation from the Iron Islands. For now, they seemed to be at ease with one another, but Rhaegar did not doubt that one clash or another would come to pass before the announced moon turn of celebration were over.

The last cluster of houses, was hard to distinguish into its pieces for they had moved around between their appointed rows and seats for the last half hour since the courtyard had been open. Houses Stark, Arryn, Tully and Baratheon were talking amongst themselves loudly, exuberantly, these people from opposite ends of the Seven Kingdoms finding kinship in the capitol, where none of them had ever felt at home.

Mayhaps, he had more in common with them than his father would like. Even his mother, however much she preferred the sombre bleakness of Dragonstone, would never denounce King’s Landing. She was proud in this castle, in the stones it was made from, in the people it housed. It was home to her in a way, Rhaegar had never felt.

A loud fanfare ripped the Prince from his meandering thoughts, having kept the sense of doom and panic at bay for a gracious few minutes, and he rose from his seat, a prickling settling into his neck and shoulders.

As he stepped around the tables to the centre of the broad podium, a procession he himself was meant to attend drew near, his father and mother leading the throng of people with smiles that he had never witnessed.

The light from the candles and lanterns caught in their red jewels, reflected off the gold and silver in their crowns, and as the assembled lords and ladies bowed before them, they waved gracefully.

Rhaegar felt sick, and folded his hands behind his back, hiding them in the lengths of his cloak to keep from clutching at the air that would not keep him upright. His nails sank into the skin of his wrist, creeping under the tight sleeves, and the pain brought him back to reality step by step.

He bowed to his father, as they reached the steps, but the punishment did not come.

He kissed the back of his mother’s hand, but she still smiled. Her eyes were not here, he could tell, gazing through him.

Lord and Lady Tarth greeted him with more dignity than he deserved, now finally meeting his eyes, and whatever Lord Tarth sought in them, he seemed to find it. The grip of his hands was strong, verged on crushing, yet as the large lord placed his other hand on Rhaegar’s upper arm, there was a gentleness there, too.

It was not acceptance, not with the way Lady Tarth resented him openly, but it was more than Rhaegar had ever hoped for. He could keep Ostaera safe, that was his only belief, and his heart warmed for one moment at the knowledge that not only did someone share this belief, but that he _was_ _believed_.

One front less to wage war against in his mind. One less fight he was condemned to loose.

One less broken piece.

Behind her parents, the Lady Ostaera followed, her eyes finding his without hesitation- a game of their own.

Lovers, they were not, and Rhaegar knew they would never be. They both knew it, and there was no resentment in that statement, for it was a simple fact. Mayhaps the only simple thing in the complex net of lies and half-truths that was being spun around and between them.

They had not truly spoken with one another ever since she had arrived, his mother had made certain of that, and Rhaegar did not know whether to be grateful or sad about it.

With the entire palace ablaze and aflutter with newfound life, only Ostaera had been kept in a sense of peace, apart from it all in the Holdfast.

A terrible peace, certainly, the calm before a devastating storm.

He held out his hand for her to place her own in it, bowing once again, to the applause of the assembled men and women. She curtsied at the same time, her head bowed, and to everyone it must have seemed a great gesture of romance. He could see the unshed tears in her posture.

Could she see the desperation in his?

That he would leave if it set her free?

He wished there was a promise he could keep, any words he could say that would not turn him into a liar.

With the music settling down into a festive tune, the couple found their seats and awaited the King’s words- what new doom would he announce?

Yet, there were no words, for his father was seemingly content with bathing in the atmosphere he had created tonight, his purple eyes wandering from one lantern to the next, from dragon to dragon.

Instead, a bell was rung, and the meals were brought forward.

“How are you faring, my lady?” Rhaegar asked lady Ostaera after the servant had left, tentatively and uncertain.

Her father sat on her other side, clearly listening to whatever words they would exchange tonight, but the man did not look in their direction.

“As well as expected” she answered, her voice finding itself, and like her straightening spine it seemed to grow with her determination.

Again, her gaze did not waver from his own, still searching something in it Rhaegar knew she would not find.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“And you, your grace?”

“Almost better than expected” he tried for a light-hearted tone, the same way Arthur had talked ever since his sister had arrived at court. Lady Ostaera seemed surprised, the first real emotion he had witnessed apart from the crumbling sadness during their first and only conversation.

It brought a different kind of life into her eyes, something made of tenderness and sunlight.

For a moment, Rhaegar feared the conversation would seep away, but the lady answered instead.

“Tell me, if you wish, your grace.”

Her hands wrapped around her goblet, almost emptied already, and as she noticed its state she did not raise it for another sip and instead swirled it around in her hand. His mother sometimes did the same, as did hers.

Now, he had to tell her. How could he stop their talking short, even if it was based on a lie- there was nothing he had expected and thus he could not be better than anything.

Desperately, his thoughts moved through one another to find something to delight her darkened heart with.

“The people say, Spring is almost upon us” he supplied after a pause too long, “They are expecting the white raven from the Citadel to arrive within the next moon turns.”

“A joyous message for the new year, without doubt” there was something akin to a smile settling into her face, not reaching her eyes and yet it was there, “They will say it is a good omen.”

Rhaegar nodded: “Do you believe in omens, my lady?”

Now, she took a sip from her cup and set it down on the red tablecloth with determination.

“No, your grace. There is scarcely anything I have ever believed in.”

“You are strong in your position” for a moment, Rhaegar scrambled to find the right words to fill the void in their conversation, “I admire that in a person. It seems, sometimes, that faith will be the only strength I have left.”

“So, you do believe in something?” her head tilted to the side.

“Something” he echoed, not daring to speak of the little book he had kept hidden in a chest for several moon turns now. The world ending might not disturb Lady Ostaera as much as it ought to, yet speaking the words aloud would make him seem more like his father than Rhaegar ever wanted to be.

Ostaera turned her head away, now looking out over the long lines of tables in front of them, seeing the swirling fires in the distance, were dancers where delighting the minor houses and knights with revelry. In turn, Rhaegar looked to her, gauging her true feelings.

She seemed less numb than before, less like a shadow of the person he had first met as the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and yet she was not fully there.

“Oh, it seems as if the sky is clearing” his mother said into the silence of the head table, and one after another, the two families and even Ser Barristan turned to look up. For the past fort-night King’s Landing had been overhung by clouds in varying shades of grey and white, no rain yet but it seemed only a matter of time.

Now, one could make out stars were they were dotted above the towers of the Red Keep, only now kept from view by the large banners.

As they watched, the winds from the Bay pushed overhead and were it not for their safe location, they would have felt the breeze harshly.

Loud sounds echoed over the yard, then, and Rhaegar could make out the shadowy figures of some lords point behind the head table were the Great Hall and Holdfast loomed. His mother and father did not react, kings did not turn, but Rhaegar was not of their make and thus followed the fingers and shouts.

In the black sky, high above the intricate pinnacles and the high roof of the Great Hall, past the half-crumpled gargoyles, loomed a new shape. Bright. Pure. Opalescent.

A star unlike any other Rhaegar had ever seen, with a red tail trailing behind it, pointing westward in a wide arch, almost encompassing the entirety of the Red Keep in its size. The colour of freshly spilled blood, and outshining the crescent moon.

It ripped him from his breath, punched him in the guts.

_Beneath a bleeding star._

“A sign” Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed, now drawing the attention of the gathered lords and ladies, the king among them, “The future of House Targaryen, my king…the Gods smile down on you.”

“A harbinger, it seems” Lord Varys added, his smooth face drawing into a mirthful smile at the sight, yet he did not elaborate.

The rookery seemed ablaze as well, Rhaegar noted, as he kept looking, the darker shades of ravens aflutter in the tower and doubtlessly carrying messages to and fro the capitol. The scribes in the Citadel would now of such a phenomenon, but how had no-one noticed it before. It could not have appeared tonight, that would doubtlessly encourage his father.

With the people now chattering about, and only the head table lying silent, the larger sconces were lit.

The time had come, the purpose of this particular feast drawing clear, as the desserts were cleared from the tables and new wine was opened and filled into crystal cups.

A large table was brought and placed in front of Ostaera and himself, verging close to the King and Queen so they could acknowledge the gifts themselves.

Suddenly, Ostaera moved her arm, her left hand clasping softly around his own and he watched an entirely different smile grow across her face. It was no true smile, still, yet it made her eyes appear like sapphires, sparkling in the fire light, and her face seemed softer than in the daylight.

The Small Council presented their gifts first, rare books and precious jewellery placed in their boxes, displayed for a moment to the royal family and the guests ere a servant placed them skilfully on the table in anticipation for the Lords Paramount.

Lord Lannister was the first of them to arrive, closing out the Small Council at the same time, which saved them some time.

Rhaegar tried not to show his disregard for the man so openly, and Ostaera still smiled in apparent delight when Lord Jaime and Lady Cersei walked up to their father with their gift being brought up behind them.

“For the Crown Prince and his Lady” the calm voice of the Lord Hand rang out, “The Westerlands have fashioned this tapestry.”

With gentle noise, the woven cloth was unfurled and even though they could not see its design, the court oh’d and ah’d.

It was impressive in size, shimmering golden thread, a three headed dragon and words in High Valyrian spelled out around it, filling out the entirety of the tapestry.

“The history of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives is inscribed, with stitches first made by my late wife and later continued by my daughter.”

Applause, and Rhaegar found himself joining them, even if the words were a most blatant lie. He would not dishonour Lady Joanna and her memory in front of his mother.

“Thank you, Lord Hand” Rhaegar said, letting his hand find Ostaera’s again. It was strangely comforting to hold onto someone during the festivities, instead of weathering it on his own.

Did she feel the same? He hoped she did, that she felt more than the nothing he always experienced.

The two children said their words, bowed their heads, and then strode down once more, side-by-side. Much like Lady Ostaera and her twin, the two were eerily similar, even speaking alike at times.

Rhaegar looked forward to seeing them grow, they had proven to have sharp minds and sharper tongues, and when the times turned lighter than they were, he would need them by his side. Even if it meant turning them against their own father.

Lord Baratheon and Lady Baratheon, the latter pregnant for a fourth time, and holding onto their youngest son Renly stepped forward. Lord Robert, Rhaegar noted, was almost as tall as his mother already and Lord Stannis was growing into it as well. The only members of his family, truly, and yet he did not know his cousins as much as he would have liked.

They could have been brothers already, planning to rid the world of its unfairness in their fanciful dreams of knights and maidens. Unstoppable, the Stormlords and the Dragonking. What a tale.

Not all was lost yet.

It was the two eldest sons who laid the gifts out, while Lord Baratheon did not meet Ostaera’s gaze. His voice, much like Lord Lannister’s, carried far and wide and thus his tone did not betray his guilt.

Ostaera kept on smiling, not looking at anyone but the two boys who smiled awkwardly as the large sword with a dragonhead pommel and round shield with suns and moons around the dragon sank into black velvet pillows.

“So you may offer protection to one another, and the Realm in turn.”

“Thank you, Lord Baratheon. There is no greater gift you could have offered us” Lady Ostaera said, and there was venom in her voice so sweet it would not have been noted by Rhaegar if he had not talked to her earlier. Sweet, and deadly all the same.

The Stormlord almost folded into himself, like a house of cards, but his wife’s fast response saved him.

“My lady, we would have gifted you the world if it was your heart’s desire. We shall endeavour to serve you however you see fit, as is our vow to our people as Lord Paramount.”

“You have my thanks and my gratitude.”

Her hands grasped his tighter, and Rhaegar endured it.

Lord Greyjoy came alone, though he had a great many sons and Rhaegar did not dare enquire after his wife. He was tall, taller than Lord Baratheon by at least an inch, and his clothing did not belie his strength.

“There is nothing I may present to you here, your grace, my lady” he began, his firm brows drawn together and his gaze piercing them in turn, “For my gift is too large to be placed on a mere table. The Iron Islands have long been known for their capability on the open seas, and there is no bauble in existence to show our faith in your family. Instead, we have fashioned you a galleon, Prince Rhaegar, and she awaits you for her true maiden voyage in the quay of the Blackwater. She is named after you, my lady, the _Lady Ostaera_ and we hope she will sail you from the Bay to the Sapphire Islands safely.”

“What colour are her sails?” Rhaegar asked, turning his hand over and linking his fingers with Ostaera’s. She was shaking, not openly so, but he felt it nonetheless.

“Black, your grace, but her wood is painted the blue of the calm sea in summer. Her crew will refine her to the day you find her wanting of nothing.”

“Thank you for your kind hearted gift, Lord Greyjoy.”

It was Prince Oberyn, alone, who walked past Lord Greyjoy on his way towards them. Were it not for the firelight, Rhaegar would have called him pale still. Circles underneath his eyes, black without a shimmer of orange in sight, and yet with anger clearly written across his features. Fury, pure and unkempt. It was whispered that he now lead a sellsword company in the far reaches of Essos, that he had seen the Ruins of Valyria with his own eyes, and judging by the deep scars and strong gait he showed, Rhaegar easily believed it. Still, Prince Oberyn remained unbowed, and unbent.

“There are a great many traditions that the Dornish are proud of, traditions that would be shunned by the other kingdoms, but we keep to them” he talked with determination, no flowers, no great pauses, “In accordance with our greatest asset, wit and cunning alike, our learned men and women have fashioned this piece for you.”

It was a box- intricate, indeed, and with golden inlays and colourful wooden patterns- but Rhaegar felt rather dumb-founded by it.

“The scroll on top contains a riddle, and you have to solve it and those that follow it to reach the centre. In its depths, my…family has hidden a secret, destined for your eyes only” on those words, his own dark eyes moved from Rhaegar to Ostaera, and the two exchanged a look and thanked the Prince. As his lithe form vanished in the night, doubtlessly on his way to another dangerous adventure, Rhaegar wished there was a secret he could have told the Prince of Dorne, too.

Lord Arryn, a calming presence, and truly the first Lord who seemed glad to be attending this event, presented the couple with a set of marvellous gems from one of the mountains in the vale: amber, yet not the warm golden colour it was known for shimmered up at them, but instead a blue so deep it seemed otherworldly. Even a little leaf had been encased in its depths, shimmering almost purple. It glowed in the dark, too, according to Lord Arryn who told a fantastical story of miners striking something more than gold.

House Tyrell, unlike most other houses, walked onto the platform with at least twelve of its members. They also presented a box, however as it was opened it revealed an egg the size of Rhaegar’s fists wrapped around one another, and fashioned from enamel. Around the black shell, swirled in red and gold, wrapped themselves intricate lilies of the valley, their white blooms blinking like stars themselves, and four golden legs held it upright while a crown sat atop. It, much like the box form House Martell, seemed to contain a secret for the new couple.

House Tully presented them with a marvellous desk, carved and painted with incredulous detail, telling the stories of Targaryen and Tarth alongside one another until they met in the very centre, a dragon curling itself around the sun and moon, now one forever.

House Stark had carved a deceivingly simple statuette from granite, with the sigils of all major houses depicted on a rendition of Westeros, with the three headed dragon growing from Dragonstone and the Sun and Moon of Tarth seen in waves crushing ashore.

Lastly, his parents now rose, gesturing for servants to bring forward the final set of gifts, and Rhaegar was glad for it. Doubtlessly, it would be something beautiful, meant to last a lifetime and preserve the memory of this feast for future generations, so that they might remember Prince Rhaegar and his loving wife Ostaera even when the world was ending.

He hoped, the people caring stone and wood, blowing glass and working gems from mineshafts had been paid graciously. At least they would find pride in knowing that the future King now owned their labour.

His mother was first, smiling lightly.

“For my new daughter, the first princess of House Targaryen since I myself was born, I have commissioned this crown.”

Surrounded now by fifty little candles, and sat atop a high cushion, awaited the crown unlike any other Rhaegar had ever seen, and he believed without doubt that his mother had been involved in its design. It looked quite heavy, more akin to a man’s crown like a princess’.

From the circlet with its suns, moons and dragons, grew thin, needle-like pinnacles, and in their broader bases Rhaegar could see a shimmering pattern. Valyrian steel.

In between the steel pinnacles sat a kind of gemstone Rhaegar had never seen before, shaped like wild-grown quartz with polished edges and gleaming surfaces. It was almost entirely black, yet it shimmered red when the light from the candles washed over it.

It was a harsh crown, fashioned for someone who was not fragile or delicate, and much like the crown his mother preferred, it told of a woman of a different make than the king she was queen to.

This present, Rhaegar hoped, would indeed survive whatever history had in store for this land, for it deserved to be shown. The story deserved to be told.

Then, it was his father’s turn, and now Rhaegar was the one who had to force has hand to stop shaking in Ostaera’s. Was it cruelty awaiting them?

King Aerys snapped, a manic glimmer to his eyes, and he did not look at the couple as he made his announcement.

No, it was no cruelty, and yet the two shrunk into themselves.

“For my eldest son, there is only one gift truly great enough. House Targaryen lives on through him, and so it shall grow!”

These words earned him applause, and Rhaegar could see him swallowing a cackle. Whatever mood his father had found himself in recently, it might not mellow his responses in court nor his decisions, yet it made him less prone for rage when he was being celebrated.

“In his name, I have commissioned the greatest blacksmiths, carpenters and stone masons to rebuild the lost castle of Summerhall. With a wife from the Stormlands, a residence in the countryside is needed, so she may feel at home. A place for the love of the prince and lady to grow, a testament to their loyalty and devotion.”

Ostaera stiffened imperceptibly.

Uncaring, and without noticing anything besides what lay in front of him, King Aerys proceeded onwards.

“In these very ruins, another gift was uncovered, destined for my sons and theirs in turn.”

As the last box was opened, all four sides meeting the table with a loudly clanking noise, Rhaegar almost rose from his seat.

It was an egg, a real dragon egg, resting unassuming within arm’s reach. In all the times he had visited Summerhall, he had never found an egg, thinking them lost in the flames and destruction wrought that night.

His mother smiled at them proudly, a Targaryen through and through, as whispers broke amongst the crowd once more.

No dragon eggs had been shown for nigh on two decades now, and as it was moved closer to the two betrothed, Rhaegar could not help but marvel at its existence.

It was of the darkest blue, almost grey in places, like Blackwater Bay at night. All alongside it were lines snaking across it, at times like the flashes of lighting and at times like flames licking at it, the colour of the rising sun.

Red comets in a blackened sky.

Although he had not been there that fateful night the woods witch had called out her warning, Rhaegar could almost hear her voice. It sounded like the wind blowing around the corners of the Red Keep.

_Dragons shall return, rising in answer of the Great Other._

Was this very egg, resting proudly in front of them, the return she had seen? It seemed, the wedding bells on the morrow would ring not only for the upcoming union of two people who did not love on another, but signal the war to end all wars.

Winter was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter!   
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment (or both, if that's your thing). Also: always write me your criticism as well, this tarrasque of a fanfic can only work out if someone tells me when I'm doing sth wrong.  
> On that note: thank you to AsakaSama who mentioned pacing in her comment on the last chapter. That leads me to my first rambling of the day.  
> Recently I started re-reading A Game of Thrones (in English this time, too) and holy shit I forgot how much we move around in that book and how much foreshadowing GRRM uses. The translation I read does not do the prose justice, at all. So I am going to learn from the ma(e)ster himself, but it's going to be a slow incline.   
> (Seriously, I need to rave to someone to how good this book is and I can't wait to get my hands on the original versions of the other books, too.) 
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, let's get into the gritty content questions/thoughts for this chapter:
> 
> As mentioned in my Beginning notes, we have a time jump. **Was that a good decision to make on my part?** We miss the dinner I mentioned at the end of the last chapter, but Rhaegar gives a brief cliff-notes version of it, telling us how Aerys basically created a Shakespearean play to tell to the court. **What do you make of that? How does that fit with your perception of Aerys?** I am aware it's a rather rare characterization, and don't worry, we'll get Mad King Aerys in all his horrifying glory, too, but after reading about his faible for masquerades and the arts, I wanted to incorporate that somehow. I might try to spin him as a Louis XIV, with dragons and more madness. 
> 
> At the feast, which is essentially the same as the one where Joffrey shredded the book Tyrion gifted him, there is mention of the houses in attendance: everyone his there. **Where you surprised at that?** There was not a lot of interaction with those lords, **how did you like that?** The politics are going to draw lines after this wedding, with a lot of players having an opportunity to interact and scheme. Ouh, the fun we'll have.
> 
> We get another conversation with Rhaegar and Ostaera, or the first one, depending on how you look at it. Most of the important aspects of their "relationship" are, and will be, the things they don't say. **What did you make of their exchange and the later moments where they grasp each others hands in support?** Also, Rhaegar does indeed not mention his firm belief in prophecies to Ostaera. **What do you expect to come out of that?**
> 
> Next up, we get some more background dressing with the Bleeding Star/Red Comet peeking out from behind the clouds. In the original novels it was interpreted as a lot of different things. **What do you make of its appearance at this point in time?** Keep in mind that the new year, 279 AC, is about to start, we have a wedding and there are moving pieces about to reach the ruins of Old Valyria. 
> 
> The largest chunk, or at least it felt like that while writing it, was the gift exchange. There are a lot of important people in attendance, and they all need some time in the spotlight. Sometimes, like with the Lannisters or Baratheons, it wasn't about the presents but rather Rhaegar's thoughts (i.e. thinking about turning the Twins against Tywin, the Baratheons sort of apologizing). **What did you pick up on? Which gift seemed of particular note to you?**
> 
> The last two/three gifts are from the Queen and King. The crown was supposed to be revealed during the wedding, but knowing the amount of descriptions I will already need for that, I moved her out since I already drew attention to Rhaella's favourite crown before. **Did you like its design?** Then, Aerys announces the restoration of Summerhall as a gift and a veiled insult. Usually, Rhaegar is the one (in Fanfics) to restore the castle since he visits it so often. **What did you make of this version of events?**   
> And lastly, we have our first dragon egg in the Fic: midnight blue with red swirls, found in Summerhall. Rhaegar remembers the prophecy, and sees it as announcing the incoming doom/ War for the Dawn. **Knowing the canon-timeline, how much time do you think is left? Do you prefer the politics or the magic Plots in GoT?**
> 
> Oh, a little note: the amber gifted from House Arryn does exist in real life. It's called Dominican Amber and is the most amazing thing I've ever heard of.  
> That is it from me- and what a lot it was.   
> The next PoV will, most likely, be Elia or maybe Taj. It really depends on the mood (tm). Might be someone else entirely, I have so many plans and plots waiting to be brought out and interwoven, getting recontextualized with new ideas. Ah! I hope you're still as exited as I am. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	17. Elia III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As she sat down, she realized she had truly forgotten the formulas she was supposed to know, and instead her mind repeated those last four lines over and over._  
>  Why was this useless information stuck in her mind now? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> Since I felt quite inspired this weekend, I wrote this chapter and since I don't know how long it might take until I can physically squeeze in an upload, I thought I might gift it to you now.  
> Also, I am weirdly proud of this one and I can't really say why. Maybe because I had one or two epiphanies about ASoIAF while doing the research (more of that at the end).
> 
> However, without further ado.  
> Let's get right into today's chapter

# Elia III

There was a lot Elia had anticipated in coming to the Citadel.

Old men.

Frustrated men.

Idiots, fools and power-hungry behemoths.

Bastards.

But she had not thought of the sheer boredom she would feel at wandering the halls. The only place in Westeros were knowledge on every subject known to mankind was kept, and keep it they did. Jealously, without the pretence of wanting to teach the masses or the smallfolk.

No, if there was one common truth Elia had learned at the Citadel it was that the ego of men festered in the recesses of their towers.

Archmaesters they called themselves, the best of the best in their given subject, yet none of them were inclined to teach common human decency to their novices. Everyone seemed to be in competition with everyone else in this wretched place, and no one to have fun with.

It was not the place Elia had wanted to visit so desperately- and it was no place to learn something within, either. You only learned what someone deemed you worthy of, and one’s worth was not determined by the knowledge they possessed but instead by the amount of favours you had earned with that given teacher.

She had never been one to give up easily, her entire existence from birth had been an uphill fight against her own body, and thus she did not think of herself as failing when she was thrown from another class for the third time that week. It had become an inside joke with the few classmates she actually liked, about how long she would be able to talk back to the maester in charge until they made her leave.

Of course, they all saw Fidelion, the witty young man, and laughed with said young man at the idiocy of men and the dumbness of women.

Women, Elia snorted as she walked through the bridge to the next tower, most of the men here were as knowledgeable about women as they were about glass candles. It made her skin crawl at times, and she had never felt as alone as in those very moments.

She loved being a woman, she loved feeling like one too, and only now that she had sworn off it for her own safety, she started to truly miss it.

Her breasts were hidden day-in and day-out, and she missed wearing floating gowns and dancing. Knitting, stitching, singing songs.

All those dainty parts of her life as a Princess of Dorne she had resented in her youth, all the soft colours she had sworn off of as she grew up.

As Elia climbed the stairs to one of the few balconies, and swung herself from the balustrade and to a nearby gargoyle, as she felt her muscles move and make her swing to the next gargoyle, she did not dare think about anything.

Yet, as she reached the roof of this particular tower, and settled herself atop the roof shingles with ease, she allowed herself to think once more.

There was a part of her, a scary and dangerous part, that found itself agreeing with those terrible words the men around her babbled. How women were always too weak, too meek, and only meant for obedience. For fucking. Not for serious discussion, that’s why these men joined the Citadel.

No one could reach their intellect at home, no one was as smart and wise as them, so they came to the only pure place in Westeros left to them.

To the outside, it seemed the perfect place of learning- a magical place in a world that magic had left- but behind these walls, there it was still rich against poor, money against honour, ambition against talent. The older acolytes were by far the worst, with their clubs and elites.

Every kind word and soul got swallowed in this machine of the Citadel, turned into something despicable by bringing out the worst in everyone.

Only the strong, the rich, the ambitious, would reach the very end of this chain.

Elia was all of these things- even if she stripped herself of her titles, or her name and her heritage, she still remained someone who might never have truly struggled at all. She already spoke several languages, knew how to wield a blade and create a few poisons.

She was only in this place because- well, because her family wanted to marry her to a boy several years younger than her.

Not because she had an insatiable thirst for knowledge or healing. Even magic did not entice her.

Instead of finding what she had wanted to find, a place where she could become what she thought she was meant to be, Elia found herself growing evermore resentful of herself.

This was not the path she was meant to walk, clearly, yet it felt like the only one she could follow at this point in time. To do something good, to achieve something without her family at her back.

Why, then, did she not feel the excitement of her youth, whenever she had heard of a new invention or topic?

Had she lost her sense of wonder, after only a few moon turns in this place?

What a dreadful thought.

The clouds grew darker as the sun sank behind it, and with it the ravens started arriving, fluttering past Elia, still sat atop the tower.

One of them, doubtlessly older and more experienced, recognizing her clothing as a maester, fluttered down to land next to her. It did not carry a scrolls, but pecked at her rough grey robe nonetheless.

“Corn!” it exclaimed, hopping up and down on her leg now.

“I don’t have any” she answered, ignoring the voice in her head telling her that the bird could not understand her.

“Corn!” it repeated angrily, now looking up at her and turning its head to the side.

A cold breeze settled over them, and the bird shivered, turning around to look North. Elia raised her hand to let her fingers pet its feathered head, and the raven footed around her leg a bit more, almost settling in.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked it, and for a moment she thought its eyes had turned white, but as it turned to face her once more, it stared at her with big black marbles.

“Shoo!” she called out, and waved her arms which finally made the raven move off of her, and Elia shook her head in disbelief.

The ravens’ returning meant a new swell of letters, and lately there had been a lot of information. Sighing, and promising to herself that she did not need to stay in this torrid place, Elia climbed down the gargoyles and the tower to join some of the other novices in the courtyard.

Gossip was the easiest way to learn about whatever letters had been sent to the Citadel of late.

Births, marriages, deaths. New medicines, mythology, stories, songs.

Today, however, everyone was talking about the wedding of the Crown Prince which was almost upon them.

Tomorrow around this time, the ceremony would be finished and the realm would have another Princess in its grasp. Another dragon.

Apparently, a dragon egg had been recovered, too and Elia found herself actively listening to the reports from the acolyte next to her whose name she did not know.

“It will never become a dragon, of course” one of the others said, and the rest of the acolytes agreed with somber nodding.

“Why would you assume that?” Elia asked, however, and much eye-rolling followed her statement.

For learned men, they did not seem to like questions as much as they ought to. Most likely because none of them knew any of the answers they proclaimed to have.

Elia could at least acknowledge how much she did not know about this world.

“Because no egg hatched in centuries. Magic has left this world” the confident one answered, his long black hair bound back in a braid.

“Stranger things have happened” Elia said, waving her hands at the sky where the Red Comet was hiding behind the clouds once more.

“Such a comet was seen at Summerhall” his tone of voice now sounded actively condescending, “When Prince Rhaegar was born.”

“Ah, another dragon incident” she responded, clapping her hands like some of the maesters she had observed in their debates.

“We’re not here to learn about myths, only nature.”

“But dragons are nature. They weren’t man made, the opposite is in fact true, mankind destroyed them.”

“You sound like a fucking Blackfyre, careful or someone’ll behead you for your words.”

Elia rolled her eyes at him and earned herself a shove from his lanky form. However, since she had expected the situation to escalate, she found her footing almost immediately and raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Bastard.”

“That is the first fact you have said tonight” she challenged, anticipating his next strike and avoiding it altogether.

Brawls were not condoned by the maesters, but they happened anyways. Boys will be boys, was their terrible excuse.

Gods, how Elia wished there were more girls or women in this Citadel.

The men claimed, it would result in more crying and other girly behaviour, since women were entirely guided by their feelings and not their thoughts.

They loved forgetting that men could be emotional on their own, and damn if they did not set themselves up for failure.

She had heard the stories of novices and acolytes throwing themselves off towers, and hanging themselves in their rooms. How these wise men had never thought about the reason behind that, Elia did not understand.

Before the brawl could escalate to a full on fight, Elia pushed through the ring of boys around her and left. There was no running involved, but she was sure that the story told at dinner would be vastly different from actual events.

Not that it mattered, let them think whatever they wanted. She had to take care of her own thoughts first, as well as her feelings. That, she could not do with them around. That was a level of independence that she could acknowledge, though it was not much.

Entering the dark halls and weaving her way to the other side, on her way enter the library for some additional reading on her curriculum, Elia remembered what she had felt like in the weeks before she had left Sunspear.

She had never thought about it before, not actively at least, but there it was. That warm feeling burning somewhere in her stomach, settling into her head like the flame of the sun.

Pride.

In herself, her abilities.

Nothing seemed to be left of that feeling anymore.

The high ceiling opened up above her, the rows and rows of bookshelves reaching up, up and up. Hidden treasures, knowledge unread for decades.

Climbing a wooden staircase to reach the higher levels, Elia tried to let herself be guided to the section that would lead her to making her first chain link. If she chose to do so, at least. For now, it seemed less important to gain a link and instead gain knowledge.

She climbed higher still, for the books on these subjects were hidden further up than most others- and sometimes Elia wondered if the most sacred text might not be hidden further down. Beneath the Citadel, in dungeons and catacombs.

Maesters were a jealous bunch, indeed. Step by step, she would draw the truths of the world they lived in from their mouths and hands. Beat them with their own weapons.

Use their prejudices and narrow-mindedness against them, not take their jabs head on but instead dance around their swords.

She found the table she had been searching, her favourite little spot, tugged into an alcove and hidden from prying eyes by thick curtains. If she were in another time, another place, it would be her preferred spot to take Arthur to.

Just the two of them, forgetting the world and its unfairness for a precious few hours.

Looking down at the little note she carried, Elia found the book she had been recommended by Archmaester Theobald. A man most gruff but mayhaps one of the few she actually appreciated. One of the few who would rebuild the Citadel properly.

Pulling the book with its obscure title from the shelf, balancing the thick tome in her struggling arms, she shook her head to clear her mind.

On the morrow, she would achieve a goal she had been wondering and dreaming about for years. A chain of her own.

In her youth, Elia had always wanted for gold in all its shades, for silver and platinum- to decorate herself in precious metals as her chain, so that all who passed her might recognize her might and mind.

That little Elia would doubtlessly be quite shocked and appalled that her older self had chosen lead instead, but the more she had listened to Theobald, the more Elia had wanted to hear from him.

He drew diagrams in his class with symbols, connecting them like they would unravel the secrets of their world if he did it just right. The way his eyes glimmered at the mere thought of nature, it pulled her from her saddened mind.

It made her forget the place she was in for just one moment, and she found herself discovering the pieces of the fire in herself in every lecture she attended.

In glass flasks and alembics and aludels he presented them with concoctions, boiling from the heat and steaming in the cold. Flames with changing colours, glowing rocks and…

Stopping her amazement short, Elia fingered through the pages and opened the chapter she needed to finish tonight. There had been a hint dropped by the Archmaester about a possible topic for tomorrows tomorrow.

It was unusual, she had heard, for an Archmaester to openly question a student about the subject for a prolonged period of time but she could not hold that against Theobald. She had yet to witness one of his judgement days for herself, and she had not gone out of her way to ask an acolyte with a lead link about the man’s ways.

It would only heighten her nerves, and that was the very last thing she needed.

She found the chapter titled Zobriedo to refresh her memory on this first and vital step of an alchemist’s goal in their studies.

The blackening, and individuation, a cleaning process.

With the candles relit, Elia sank back into the hard chair she had pulled to the desk, propping the book against the edge of the table, absentmindedly letting the metal tip of her quill draw lines into the soft wood.

Silently, Elia mouthed the list of components for one of the cleaning solutions, trying to remember where Theobald might store them as well as their names in the two languages the Archmaester preferred. High Valyrian and the old version of the Common Tongue.

 _Another formula is vitriol, saltpetre, alum and common salt._ It read, and Elia mouthed said formula too.

Then she closed her eyes, counted to ten in what Oberyn had called the “Rhoynish language”, trying to rid her mind of the words she had just said.

A pause, and then Elia recounted the ingredients to both formulas as well as she could.

It was the sixth time she repeated this process, when she heard the cluttering footsteps of a maester entering this level. He walked past, she could see the bottom of his robe underneath the curtains, and stopped some four steps.

Drawing her eyebrows closer together, Elia slowly pushed the book back onto the table and got up from the chair without moving it.

Her leather boots made no sound on the stone, and she slid closer to the curtain considering pulling it aside to see who was making his way around the library. She stopped short, however, when she heard the maester pull a tome from one of the shelves, muttering to himself in what sounded like bastard Valyrian.

Or mayhaps he was cursing a lot, it was hard to tell at this distance and with her brain swimming from reading so much in High Valyrian in the last moon turns.

Some words reached her ears, yet none of them made any particular sense

 _No one Man…_ mumbling… _rule their fire…_ mumbling _…lion coloured green…_ mumbling…

Then the sound of a book closing.

Elia huffed inwardly. Even spying on the learned men had never proven useful, even if most of them had the wonderful habit of talking to themselves at every opportunity.

Then the maester shuffled past once more, still mumbling in clear anger and for a moment Elia thought it might be even Theobald but then his tone shifted, and she did not recognize him anymore. This one had impersonated the Archmaester, without doubt. Mayhaps a quarrel between an acolyte and Theobald?

The man climbed down the stairs, and after she had counted twenty steps on it, Elia slipped from the curtain and made for slow steps in the same direction the maester had gone to find the book.

It was surprisingly easy to discern which tome the man had pulled out, seeing as it was pushed back further than the ones surrounding it, and also bound in jade coloured leather.

Opening it, Elia saw green filigree wrapping itself up and down the calligraphy of the actual text. As with most alchemical texts she had read, and even certain quotes Archmaester Theobald loved saying in his lectures, it was written in rhymes and verses.

She had heard the man right, then, she discerned as she skimmed the lines quickly. The book talked about fire and a green lion, and in particular men trying to hunt said lion.

_But our lion wanting maturity,_

_Is called green for un-ripeness, trust me._

Elia shuddered at that particular rhyme, it hurt her physically to re-read it twice to truly understand the winding sentence the phrase was embedded in.

_And yet full quickly he can run,_

_And soon can overtake the Sun,_

_And suddenly can him devour,_

_If they both be shut in one tower._

Well if that was not a warning, nothing could ever be.

The learned men of the Citadel hated prophecies, it was the first and only lesson she had heard from each and every Archmaester in their opening lecture. All fifteen of them had said that magic, if it ever existed, was gone from this world.

That magic was no part of nature, and that prophecies would never become truth without man making it so.

Yet, this text read to Elia like a prophecy, like an omen. She did not know what it portended, yet with every line she read on further, she felt her heart beat faster.

Within the lines, as always, was contained a needlessly complicated formula- written in a way that only those with a good understanding of alchemy would be able to use it.

Elia read of warnings in the text, of suns and moons, lions and magnets. Flames, always flames.

Along the way, she gleaned that the green lion of the title referred to the beginning stages, or mayhaps to some sort of catalyst, and that one was supposed to ferment a certain concoction until one had gained white and red, one for heat and for the cold.

It was mayhaps the most amazing aspect of alchemy: how it wove philosophy into its science without meaning to.

_Should first know well to rule their fire:_

_For with good reason it does stand,_

_Swords to keep from mad Mens hand._

Indeed, she thought, closing the tome and placing it in its place once again. Swords did not belong with mad men, and certainly not kings.

The book had talked of a king to, yet was Elia quite uncertain whether the king was an actual person or another metaphor this particular author liked using.

Returning behind her curtain, Elia repeated one of the phrases stuck in her head.

_If he be of colour white,_

_Feed him then with luna bright._

_If his flesh be perfect red,_

_Then with the sun he must be fed._

It sounded almost like a children’s rhyme you would hear during one of the games, and Elia found herself humming one of the melodies to herself, each word ingraining itself.

As she sat down, she realized she had truly forgotten the formulas she was supposed to know, and instead her mind repeated those last four lines over and over.

Why was this useless information stuck in her mind now? It had to be the melody, truly. If this continued, she might dream of green lions, white moons and red suns the entire night and forget all Theobald had taught her by dawn.

Sitting herself down firmly, elbows placed on the table and her head in her hands, Elia focused on the important chapter again.

Vitriol, Nitre and Sal ammonica.

Vitriol, sapetre, alum and common salt.

Horse dung.

She snorted again, backtracking the paragraph she had inadvertently skipped, finding out one was supposed to let the current Cinnabar concoction purefy in said horse dung for an entire moon turn. It sounded like a great idea, truly.

Elia hoped, Theobald would not ask them to perform this particular part of the formula. The book might be called the “The Treasure of Treasure for Alchemists”, yet she doubted the validity of the man’s plans.

Reading on, she stumbled over a paragraph “Concerning the Red Lion” and she almost gave up then and there, as the Rains of Castamere started buzzing in her mind.

 _Afterwards take the lion in the pelican_ …

These men had to have been imbibing something stronger than wine or beer, stronger than any tinctures prepared by mankind to create such strange and odd descriptions.

She re-read the sentence, determining that the phrase was indeed what had been written down, and startled at the clarity with which they had been drawn. Each letter clearly discernible, no second guessing.

Well, at least on the surface level.

Elia tried recalling what the pelican was symbolising, whether Theobald had mentioned it at all. Symbolism had never been her favourite part of these lessons, she preferred clear cut instructions over any metaphors the Archmaester used with them.

Pulling out her notebook, leather-bound and of simple make, she flipped to one of the last pages, or rather its margins, where she had jotted down the most important symbols from Theobald’s lectures.

There were the standard signs for each element, one for the sun and moon, one for each god in the known worlds and so on and so forth.

After some turning and scribbling, Elia managed to find the animal section, hidden at the very beginning of her notes and thus on the very last page. Birds had an entire section dedicated to themselves, and she quickly read the little diagram she had copied. It was rather beautifully done, back when she had still put actual effort into her notes. Now, they rather resembled the scribbles of a madwoman, letters leaning into one another and taking up twice the space they had before.

At least no one ever asked to see her notes, since it was hard to read without taking up more time than anyone was willing to spend on copying.

Underneath the headline “Sequence” she had written five animals:

Black Crow, White Swan, Peacock, Pelican and Phoenix.

At least four of them were real, which was a better ratio than the usual alchemical texts (green lions- honestly).

Looking at her notes, Elia knew at once why she did not want to remember the words. It was mostly about spirituality, and the mind-set an alchemist should try to achieve in their lifetime. Ridding oneself of the pure physical understanding of the world, gaining an astral body and all matter of nonsense.

How a man like Archmaester Theobald, with an understanding of the laws of nature and applying them to transform elements into each other, could believe in this hocus pocus without thinking it magic made no sense to Elia.

What was the difference between faith and magic? Why did maesters need to draw the line between these two so harshly, but at the same time welcome magic into their world without the blink of an eye?

Elia was well aware that most of these texts were as old as the Citadel itself, only translated ever so often to make it easier to grasp for coming generations. Mayhaps the maesters had not been against magic for all their time, it seemed the notion had developed rather late in their existence.

According to her little diagram, the phoenix was the endpoint. The spiritualisation, however much she hated that word, and the alchemist would have achieved his final goal with becoming a phoenix. Or was it creating a phoenix? Both?

The Pelican was the second to last stage, symbolising the sacrifice of one’s inner being. One’s self image had to be transformed, or rather offered to the developing spiritual self.

Looking at the thick tome she was deciphering, Elia closed her eyes to connect the lion to both its symbolic meaning as the raw power of nature itself and its actual, useful meaning as an acidic solution meant to dissolve gold. Gold or even platinum.

Elia snapped her fingers in triumph.

The pelican…well, if it had an actual use assigned to it, she had not written that down. If the question came up tomorrow, she had to talk circles around the subject and hope Theobald would ignore it or not notice.

To be a little better prepared and avoid a possible blunder, Elia reviewed her notes on the other animals she had described in her book.

A white swan, describing a first conscious experience of whatever astral nonsense, which was often mistaken for true illumination. In actuality it meant that a white crust would show in a given flask after calcination. It was the wet counterpart to the white eagle. 

The peacock was the turning point indeed, but as most of its description amounted to “colours changing rapidly” most likely due to oils on the surface, she tried not to get lost in that part.

And lastly, the beginning of it all: the raven, the black crow- the toad. She had drawn a rather adorable toad next to the list, with a grim visage eerily similar to Doran’s face. Elia smiled, imagining how her brother would react to hearing her explain these odd writings to him in their solar.

Her smile died as she realized that she may never have such a conversation with him again, and her heart ached for it. For every word they would never exchange now.

Her fingertips traced over the lines of the little toad, as well as the feather she had drawn underneath the words, lost in the memory of Sunspear. Of its library, of its gardens.

Dancing with Oberyn, arguing with Doran.

Laughing with Doran, fighting with Oberyn.

They had seldom agreed on every subject, and her brothers would tear her apart with their words if they ever learned of the useless things she learned- of symbols that would not save a life, or defeat a terrible foe.

Words might sound like prophecies in these horrible poems, but they held no actual meaning. Only looking past the metaphors you truly understood what these things meant.

Of course, some texts would never amount to an actual meaning and were merely flavour added to an exchange to confuse onlookers and make the author look wiser than they actually were.

_If he be of colour white,_

_Feed him then with luna bright._

Elia slapped her forehead with her hand and groaned, trying to get the melody out of her head again. It was not helpful.

After another two hours, judging by the low burning candles, and the ever dwindling moonlight outside, Elia decided it was enough.

If Archmaester Theobald was to gift Fidelion his first lead link, he needed to sleep at least four hours.

Elia thanked the Gods that most Archmaesters preferred the later hours, too, and liked to be undisturbed before their midday meal.

Humming “Fair Maids of Summer”, and changing it into “The Bair and the Maiden Fair” at the halfway point to her chambers, earning herself a chuckle from some of the passing acolytes. As she entered through another archway, she heard the four young men pick up the melody, their deep voices echoing over the dark yard.

She could hear one of them suddenly get into a song she did not know, only catching one or two verses.

“ _A thousand eyes, Open inside, To grant me sight to see the end.”_

Elia took up the melody, silently singing it to herself as she finally sank into the hard pillows. That night she dreamed of a lion gnawing at the sun, and swallowing the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment.  
> If there is something bothering you about this Fanfic, also write that down in the comments. I'm still learning how to properly "do" a GoT Fanfic, and like Sansa I am a slow learner. 
> 
> But now it's time for some of my thoughts/questions for this chapter.
> 
> The biggest one is, of course, Elia's chosen area of study for the moment. Alchemy. Much like Oberyn, Elia is very interested in gaining the upper hand in any given situation, and thus the creation of substances and the transformation of them interests her. **What topic do you expect her to take on, next?**  
>  There is some discussion regarding the meaning of the different link and the metals they are made of. Since Alchemy in our world has a strong link to lead (Philosopher's Stone, everyone), I decided that would make the most sense. 
> 
> Elia also gives us her opinions on the Citadel and the maesters and it does not look good for them. Her talking is based on some of my experiences with working/studying a field where women are very much the minority. Currently, I am working in a group where I am the only woman and it make a huge difference. Like Elia, you don't notice it until you're in such a situation already, and like her I had to reconcile my image of "being female" and internalized misoginy with myself. Realizing you hate a part of yourself, and denied that part, because you were made to hate femininity? That hurts. So Elia is my response to that, and my way of working through my issues. **What do you think about Elia and the Citadel? Would you tear it down, like her?**  
>  Also, like Elia, I have struggled with the reason why I'm studying when I don't burn for the subjects I'm learning- which is a normal thought process to have.
> 
> As she climbs one of the towers, Bran Style, she meets a raven and for a second its eyes seem white to her. We know that that's the Three Eyed Raven showing up. **What involvement do you expect from him in the stories to come?** It served as foreshadowing for other aspects introduced in this chapter at the same time, which I'll get into in a moment.
> 
> In her discussions with the acolytes in the courtyard, Elia brings up the "dragons are nature" argument as to why an egg could hatch. We know that magic and dragons are intrinsically linked, and I have read a great many Fanfics where dragons are realized as villains since they are essentially war-mashines made for destruction (the comparison to nuclear weaponry seems close). **Where do you stand with them? Are they nature or an abomination?**
> 
> Elia is about to gain her first link, but also tries not to care too much aboute actually getting it. She want knowledge, first and foremost, but like any student she still wants to perform well and get good grades/recongition. Her studies in Alchemy, I based on actual alchemy texts (and damn are they hard to read, not only due to their language choices but their content as well), outright quoting them, too. She gets interrupted, or rather let's herself be interrupted, by a maester walking past her little nook and overhears him talkin about fire and a green coloured lion. **Was it too obvious for you what that alludes to?**  
>  This section in particular is all from a text called "The Hunting of the Green Lion" and some of its lines read like a straight-up prophecy, or rather multiple ones. I can strongly recommend alchemical texts for inspiration/ background dressing in your own Fanfics.  
> Elia gets a particular passage stuck in her head, and I hope it stood out to you as well for its significance. **What conclusion do you draw from the green lion, the "colour white-luna bright" and "perfect red-sun he must be fed"?** (Again, these texts are _made_ to be used for a GoT Fanfic).
> 
> The last set of symbols Elia pours over concerns animals of the bird variety: peacocks, pelicans, phoenixes, swans and crows. To quote the website I used as resource (levity.com/alchemy/alcbirds.html): _The Black Crow sometimes also the Raven is the beginning of the great work of soul alchemy. [...] This stage [...] is often pictured as a death process[...] Thus in the symbol of the Black Crow we have the stepping out in consciousness from the world of the physical senses the restrictions that bind us to the physical body._ **Does this not sound like Bran Stark to you?** I need a tinfoil hat...  
> Get prepared for magic and mysticism in the future, folks. I'll take this fragment and run with it.
> 
> Next PoV? Taj, in Valyria, searching for secrets on dragons with the Bleeding Star in the sky.
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	18. Ostaera V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She was no dragon, she would never be one. She was of Tarth, a sapphire born and as a sapphire she would die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> My brain loves autumn and winter for writing- which is why I now have * checks notes * three more chapters as cushion for the weeks to come. That means, most likely, that you'll now get a chapter every five days like I managed in the beginning of this Fanfic.  
> I know I said I would do a Taj chapter, but after I wrote both Ostaera V and Taj III, I just knew I had to change the order around so it feels better.  
> Thank you to RedAquilla for your continued support on this story. You were the reason I actually changed the order around, since you mentioned that in a previous comment, and my head was nagging me about following through with it. 
> 
> Anyway, there's a wedding to celebrate. How exciting...
> 
> Without further ado,   
> Let's get right into today's chapter.

# Ostaera V

The sound of five-hundred thousand men, women and children pressed through the curtained windows of the carriage.

Opposite from Ostaera, her father was sitting, his eyes closed, his hands wrapped around hers as they were carted from the heights of Aegon’s Hill along the main street towards the Sept.

She had not looked outside any of the windows on this day, and now she tried to remain calm.

Since dawn the bells of every sept had been ringing, a cacophony of faith.

It seemed so easy to rip open the wooden doors, lift her skirts and run into the winding paths and endless corners of the capitol. Yet with every bump, it felt like a headman’s axe being struck into her neck. The shackles had been cast, cold and hot around her wrists.

Ostaera bit into her cheek to keep tears from streaming down her face. Her father, ever the strong lord of Tarth, gripped her hands stronger.

Intertwined they rested against the long skirt, fashioned from the finest black silk velvet the Queen had ordered personally from her favourite dressmaker.

Every part of today had been designed by Queen Rhaella, too, and Ostaera could not have been more thankful- she did not care for any of it. Only for the end, when it was finally over.

If, that is, it would ever be truly over.

With a sudden jolt, the carriage came to a halt and as her father pulled her in close, their foreheads pressing together and his large hands encasing her head, the moment rushed past far too quickly.

She wished she could say any words to assure him, but they had not spoken when they had broken their fast and they would not speak now either.

Two pages, young and bare-faced, proud with red cheeks and gleaming eyes, opened the two latches, taking out the wooden door panels entirely.

Steps sank down, and with one last kiss to her forehead, her father climbed out ahead of her.

The noise was even greater here, on the Steps of the Sept, than they had been directly outside the holdfast.

Little fabric flags and banners were flickering in the early afternoon winds from the Blackwater, and as she stepped outside on shaking knees, grasping for her father as soon as she could, Ostaera saw for the first time what the Queen had created.

A long, broad black carpet had been pushed down the steps she was meant to climb, and it was guarded on both sides by man-high bouquets of bright, white flowers. Large chrysanthemums, and dahlias, hydrangeas and lilies stood in crimson porcelain planters, guarding her.

Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, the only members of the Kingsguard she had ever interacted with, bowed before her as Ashara stepped past her brother to straighten out her dress and cloak.

“It’s almost done, my lady” Ashara whispered, her purple eyes filled with peaceful determination ere the young Dayne slipped away, spreading out the seven feet long black velvet train, embroidered with darkened silver thread and red gemstones, appearing like dark flames burned down its length. 

Only the under-layers were entirely red, like spilled wine, the only true colour she would wear for the rest of her life.

Ostaera swallowed, the skin of her neck pressing against the cold choker they had put her into.

She hated it most of all. 

Black sapphires, the King had crowed that day, and scattered the purse of gemstones down the steps of the Iron Throne. Ostaera had remained still, seeing flashes of Tarth in their depths.

Rhaella had taken the stones, however, and now they were wrapped around her neck like spears and blades, almost like one had chosen to turn the Iron Throne into a piece.

Silver and steel thread had been woven all throughout, the pattern of dragon scales, adorned with faceted red gemstones that were not rubies. With the sun now upon her, the gems would scatter over her pale skin like blood.

Would the Gods have mercy on her and strike her down, dolled up as she was like she was a born daughter of House Targaryen?

If she must, she’d burn down the entire Keep and the damned Throne with it.

If she had the choice, the lineage of dragonlords would find its end today.

The bells were ringing on, the crowds were cheering still, but Ostaera did not glance at them once. She sought her father’s blue eyes, and found one more moment of comfort, one single heartbeat of her own, before they turned to walk up the stairs.

Every step made her heart sink further, and further, it shook her to the core but she could not look down. She felt that if she looked to the ground, she might fall through it.

Stars danced in her vision, but every sound seemed to become louder the closer to those doors they came.

At the zenith, the knights strode past them, and Ashara offered her father the maiden cloak.

Meant to cover a king’s lie, blue and pink, and like a dream of spring. But she did not feel it, as its golden cord was clasped shut with a little sun pin above her heart, yet her fingers longed to wrap themselves in the light, fluttering silk for protection.

A fanfare was sounded, and with a heaving, loud noise, the Sept opened itself to them. The lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms rose to their feet, as the sounds of a choir drifted to them from each of the Sept’s corners.

Ostaera closed her eyes.

Emmerich.

Adolar.

Lorelei.

She took another breath, her right hand resting on her father’s arm.

Lorelei.

Adolar.

Emmerich.

This King would speak his last lie soon.

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, but they were scorching hot, like the embers in her spine.

She was no dragon, she would never be one. She was of Tarth, a sapphire born and as a sapphire she would die.

As they descended down the marble, to the gasps and muted words of the Realm, with the Queen and her husband standing at the end, Ostaera dared raising her head higher than she had on the ascent.

Her back straightened, finding the lone figure of Prince Rhaegar in the centre.

She gripped her father as tight as she dared, as a cold fist wrapped itself around her heart, crushed into her ribs, shaking her arms like every sinew in it had started fighting against itself.

They passed her family- her mother following her every step with bright, panicked eyes. Her brothers grasping at their steel.

Her sister _was_ steel, blue and watching the king with deliberation.

But it was her twin’s gaze she caught, the same anger now reflecting in both their eyes, she knew. A vein in his jaw ticked, and his eye twitched, and Ostaera inclined her head, holding his gaze for as long as she could.

They had never had need of words.

He would shine his deepest blue in the light of the sun, while she would fight her way back with the moon at her back.

Her father turned to her as they reached the end, bowing before her, and her heart beat in pain.

She remembered the way her face hurt from smiling, how she had turned to see Emmerich’s face, see his smile, and kissed her father on his cheek, before he had carefully taken her true maiden’s cloak from her shoulders.

He did the same now, yet the little sun pin did not budge from its place on her heart, a last sign of defiance, and Ostaera did not remove it herself as Rhaegar stepped up to her.

The voice of the High Septon lost itself in the heights of the ceiling, and Ostaera was glad for it. At least she would keep that memory to herself untainted.

She had lost love, and happiness and hope- but knowing she had memories of them, it felt less like losing those she loved.

Those she had not saved.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection” the elderly man intoned, his crown of gold and crystal almost blinding in the sun breaking through the windows around them.

Rhaegar let go of her hand, and Ostaera let her hands sink together, her neck bowing lightly as this new weight was added to it, the velvet spreading over her like raven’s wings. The Prince clasped her shoulders for one moment, but his hands were too large, his fingers too long and pale for her to truly find comfort in it.

The only consolation was that this Prince cared for his wedding as much as she did, but his king had commanded it.

Their hands clasped one another again, their fingers lacing together, as the Septon repeated words that would haunt Ostaera forever.

As the only words she needed to say tumbled from her lips, Ostaera silently cursed each one after the other.

The Father for withdrawing his judgement from the world.

The Mother for breaking her promise of love and mercy, for shattering life.

The Warrior for her beloved Emmerich’s courage that killed him.

The Smith for breaking them with his hammer, and melting them in his forge.

The Maiden for abandoning her children.

The Crone for her misguidance of men.

Only the Stranger she did not curse, for what crime had he done unto her but his solemn duty?

Yet, she might hate him most of all. Duty.

Duty made her swear herself to another man.

Duty made her break her vows to the man she loved.

Duty was her death, for she had died with Emmerich.

She saw him before her, her knight of the Crossing, his dark green eyes.

Each and every scar she would find in the darkest of nights, each one she had cherished.

“I am his” she whispered, as their vows had come to an end, silently, but Prince Rhaegar must have heard them nonetheless.

“I am his” she repeated even more silently, her fingers clutching at the prince’s hands harshly, digging into his skin, but he did not react.

Violet, not green.

Red, not purple.

Black instead of white.

“With this kiss” Rhaegar spoke out loudly, and Ostaera crashed through into reality, almost physically stumbling.

“I pledge my love” the Prince finished, turning to her, something akin to an apology showing on his face as he bent forward to press his lips against hers.

Cheers erupted inside the Great Sept, and the bells began their loud chanting alongside the sound of more fanfares and singers echoing in from the outside.

The odd red star was still blinking over the capitol, Ostaera noted as her and Rhaegar stepped as the first ones through the doors to the Sept, the crowd beneath them a roaring fire of noise and colour. Waves in a thunderstorm.

They moved to the side, still holding to one another’s arms, as the King and Queen Rhaella followed them, with the knights of the Kingsguard spreading out around the two royal couples.

Ostaera suppressed the urge to retch up the nothing she had eaten, pushing these thoughts back further once more.

Prince Viserys had been left in the Red Keep, lest he disturb the sanctity of this farce.

Her distraction did not serve her for long.

The King cackled madly, and Rhaella wore her favoured serene smile, the one she only discarded when the King and his spies were well out of earshot.

Ostaera copied her, when suddenly another hand grasped her own, and she recognized Astraeon by the two rings he wore. 

She squeezed back, concealing them in the folds of her cloak, but far too son the royal couple started their descend towards yet another part of this endless ceremony.

Ostaera held great respect for the Queen, and trusted the woman more than anyone else in this city, but a part of her dreaded what Rhaella had planned. For one, the Queen had never given Ostaera a reason for this show of alliance, instead demanding that Ostaera follow her lead on this day.

With four men in Targaryen colours surrounding it, still resting on the same velvet cushion as the night before, sat enthroned the heavy crown Rhaella had had fashioned for her.

It was a grotesque thing, unyielding, and like shards of broken swords. In the sun, it seemed even sharper than the soft brushes of dusk, now displayed for the Realm to see.

A small ottoman was placed next to it, and as Rhaegar took the heavy cloak off her shoulders and Ashara helped her kneel on it, the Prince stepped back in front of her. Like a dance where they held the strings as she was moved to whatever fancy took them.

“Lords, Ladies!” the Prince’s voice carried farther than Ostaera had expected, the crowd quieting piece by piece, anticipating this unannounced interlude. There was amazement in their eyes, Ostaera was sure, for who could claim to have the Prince speak to them on his wedding day?

What a stage the Queen had fashioned.

“I here present unto you, Lady Ostaera of House Targaryen, your undoubted Princess. Wherefore all you who come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”

More lies, wrapped in black velvet and crimson silk, yet spoken all the same for five-hundred thousand to hear.

“I promise and swear to govern the People of the Seven Kingdoms, a Princess of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men” Ostaera heard herself saying.

“Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?”

“I solemnly promise so to do” she answered her lord husband, hearing her own curses echo in her mind.

“In the name of my father, King Aerys Second of His name, of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I declare thee Crown Princess Ostaera of Dragonstone.”

Ostaera lifted her face to stare up the Prince, thankfully not into the sun, as the piece of jagged metal was placed into her hair by his own hands, slotting perfectly into the twists and braids with cold finality.

“Rise, Crown Princess Ostaera” Rhaegar intoned, offering her his hand, as the people around them erupted into thunder again. Shouts of “Targaryen” and “Dragonstone” mingled into it, but not a single one shouted Tarth for her.

Staring out over the people, _her people_ now by the law of the Gods, she felt herself slip away, the fire she had felt earlier waning and she wanted to scream at it to not leave her with nothing but numbness, again. She wanted to claw at the fire to stay with her, but it went and slipped and sighed into smoke.

Sapphires are not black.

They took their seats under the pavilion, hastily erected since daybreak, and Ostaera stared out over the crowd of lords spread out before her.

Her and Rhaegar were now seated at the very centre of the podium, with the Queen and her husband now off to the right. Musicians were playing gentle tunes as the people found their seats, most of them glad for it, Ostaera supposed. She felt restless and yet tired all the same.

“To the Prince and the Princess!” someone exclaimed then, and cups and goblets were raised in slow unison, but the calls were loud and unending in the afternoon sun.

Her siblings stepped forward, out from their seats on her side and onto the podium directly in front of them, and as her brothers drew their blades, each wearing the favour of Tarth as well as their wife’s and stood their vigil, her sister placed one last gift in front of Ostaera and the Prince.

Ostaera rose to her feet, reaching out and her sister pulled her into her arms across the too wide table without a moment’s hesitation. Without having to hear the word.

She breathed her sister in, drawing strength from the soft circle motions Cordelia was painting into her shoulders.

Carefully, Ostaera then drew open the blue silken string in front of her, the wicker basket revealed inside the cotton.

First, she only saw flowers, and a great many of them, her heart bursting open.

Pink gardenias, three of them dried with stems painted in silver, bound together by purple strings. Those she recognized, for there had been gardenias blooming on her wedding day, and Emmerich had placed one in her braids between slow dances and drunken kisses.

White heather filled out most of the basket, blinking over the edges, almost spilling unto the table.

Slowly, Ostaera took out the items resting in their midst, careful not to crush any of the petals. She would keep each and every bloom, and the basket, too.

She told her family so, holding each of their gazes, and heard the laughter of the nearby lords at her words.

What a silly young girl they must think her, and what silly old men they were.

Let them laugh at her, their condescension was nothing. Much like their honour.

The fine dagger was the first object she cradled between her fingers. It was delicate and thin, like a needle almost.

“A stiletto, dearest sister” Selwyn explained, as she pulled the blade from its carved antler sheath, carved with odd runes and designs flourished in stars, moons and suns.

“Do you fear for her safety, Lord Selwyn?” Rhaegar asked, still seated and Ostaera did not turn to look at him, instead marvelling at the enamel and glass pommel. It was so thin, and looked easy enough to break.

“No, your grace” she could hear the irony in her brother’s voice but he sounded incredulously startled at the same time. Had mother turned him into a courtier, then?

“We will treasure it” Ostaera said, clutching the stiletto to her heart for a moment.

Would she dare piercing her own skin and flesh with it?

Blood would not show on her black gown.

Next to the knife, a quill pen rested, an antler made grip around it, too and for a moment Ostaera wondered at that.

She did not dare draw her eyes together, and instead lifted the quill out of its resting place to show to the assembled men and women.

Giving it to Rhaegar, she turned to the last object.

Careful not to drop it, she lifted the necklace and broach out, staring at the way the pearls ran through her fingers, a stark contrast to the black of her tight sleeves. Where the necklace centred, thin lines of silver gold formed the shapes of the sun and moon, another pearl at the very centre.

“To remind you of home, my love” her mother said, almost silently, and it reverberated in Ostaera’s mind as if she was standing alone in the Great Sept.

“Turn it around” Astraeon whispered, catching her gaze as she followed his words, her eyes wandering over the back of the design.

Phrases in High Valyrian were engraved into every facet of the piece.

 _Hoskagon_. Pride.

 _Alke_. Courage.

 _Kustikane_. Strength.

 _Epiphraeon._ Prudence.

 _Elipeis._ Hope.

 _Poinas._ Retribution.

 _Iraena._ Wrath.

Intertwined with those seven words, as they grew from the metal like the first light in summer, were three letters. The L she spied first, pressed so tightly against _Iraena_ it read more like _Iraenal_ – the High Valyrian word for passion.

The A she saw second, and it changed the Retribution of _Poinas_ to _Apoinas._ Justice.

Her eyes searched for the E, finding it tucked into _Epiphraeon_ so seamlessly it had almost escaped her. Love.

Ostaera swallowed her tears hastily, raising the necklace to her lips and pressing a kiss to the centre pearl, eyes closing as she felt it be a living man instead.

She was not ready to say goodbye to her loves, she would never truly be ready, but holding them in her hands- even as mere letters hidden in words- it strengthened her. No heat in her spine, and the pain did not vanish into its hiding place again, instead cooling and intertwining with this newfound tenderness.

The heavy neckpiece did not feel as heavy anymore, Ostaera decided as she pocketed her family’s gift and sat herself back into the carved chair, not feeling the dragon scales press into her shoulder anymore. Or if she did, she shrugged it off.

She lifted her goblet, filled to the brim for what must have been the fifth time that day, and toasted her twin brother, the serene smile she had learned from her mother. He toasted back, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

His other hand was grasping at his ceremonial blade’s pommel, and Ostaera almost felt tears of relief fall from her eyes. It warmed her heart to know that her brother would kill every man in this round to free her, but it twisted it, too, for the other man who had chosen her life over his own had been murdered for it.

She would not lose another one she loved to the cruelty of kings.

Carefully, Ostaera turned her head to glance at said king where he was reclined into his own throne almost lazily, his pupils blown wide and staring into the edge of the table as if it held the greatest mysteries of the world in its dead veins.

As if feeling her eyes upon him, his head shot up suddenly, swivelling before landing on her and Ostaera’s shoulders tensed down into the tips of fingers, resting next to the silverware.

The music seemed to drown out of her ears as if all the musicicans had stopped playing their merriment, the sounds of the lords talking following suit.

His eyes were dead, a corpse walking and talking in their midst. No mad glimmer as she had expected, instead she looked into an abyss for what felt like an eternity, unable to turn away, falling into the abyss herself.

Her sight was swimming, blurring at the edges, growing stronger every second, as if her body had been tilted upside down. Or maybe turned upright again?

Her heartbeat was pounding, making her fear it was trying to spring from her ribcage.

A hand was wrapping itself around her own, fingers parted by theirs, almost clammy, and one moment later she felt another one come to rest against the small of her back, a weight so familiar to her she almost woke up in the Crossing on a peaceful morning.

But it was not so, and as she felt herself swim up into the reality of this dreadful moment, she realized that not only had she stopped hearing the assembled but that they had indeed stopped talking.

The king was standing, his wine raised high, leaning on the armrests of his chair, his long beard reaching down, down, down.

The silence was deafening, and Ostaera wondered if she had lost her hearing.

The Queen was still seated, eyes wide and staring up at her husband.

The sound of someone clanking to their feet shook Ostaera awake further, and she saw her beloved brother stride past Cordelia and his wife, coming to stand once more in the centre of the platform in front of them, now focusing his eyes on the king.

“You will not touch her!” he said, his voice almost wavering but remaining stronger.

The king laughed and laughed, until it turned into coughing.

“How dare you, little lord? I am the King!” Aerys answered, “It is my Gods’ given right.”

Astraeon’s hands clasped around the handle of his blade, blue eyes lit on fire so brightly, it almost burned Ostaera.

But she was not scared, no her heart was beating again, calmer than just a breath before, but stronger, too.

Next to her, his hand still in her own, Rhaegar was motioning to rise from his chair, but Ostaera rested her free hand on his arm, halting him. He turned to her in surprise, but she was already rising out of her seat once more.

Astraeon looked to her, then, hand clutching tighter around the handle of his blade.

“Brother”, she said after a moment, finding her voice again, “Brother, please.”

There were so many words she could not say, not in front of the court.

Who would call their banners for Tarth?

Her entire family would lose their heads, but she would not let them. Not for her. Not by the hands of this _king_.

Her crown was taller than his own.

 _She_ was taller than him.

The fire was tingling in her shoulders, wrapping around her like the damned neckpiece, but it did not choke her.

She straightened her shoulders, the fingertips of her right hand tracing the table while her left hand offered itself to the Prince.

His hand was cold, but not enough to dim the flames she felt. The anger. The hatred.

“He is the king, brother. If he wishes to claim me, it is his right.”

And she would kill him for it.

“Your sweet sister knows her manners” the King cackled, “Return to your worthless island, Lord Tarth, lest I take your head and gift it to her on her wedding day.”

She could see Astraeon twitch, his gauntleted hand catching in his blue cloak, grasping at the edges.

Ostaera did not believe in any gods, nor in faith, but in that breath she found herself praying to whoever might listen.

“If you hurt him, you must kill me first, your grace” she said, not knowing what was compelling her, “For if the man…the brother I love dearest should perish, I shall not wish to live anymore.”

For one moment, as the king turned to face her, she thought he might hold her to that very promise, calling for his headsman right this moment.

She would let him- that she was certain of- she was not fighting for her own life, after all.

Something soft was pressing against her fingers, and as she turned in surprise, Ostaera’s eyes came to rest on those of Prince Rhaegar, who must have slipped from his own chair as she had not looked at him, now kneeling next to her, his lips a hair’s breadth from the hand he was still holding in his own.

Then, as the Realm looked upon them, her brother still standing in front of the king to bargain for her, he bowed his head.

“Princess Ostaera” his voice echoed over the still silenced crowd, and had she not been as startled, Ostaera would have laughed at the Prince _kneeling behind a table_. He continued on, regardless of how it must look.

“We are sworn to one another, from this day till our last day. However, there is another pledge I find myself compelled to offer.”

He looked up at her, holding her gaze like she had done with him. She could see his mouth moving, but his words were almost too silent for her to hear.

_I am not the knight you dream of, but I will protect you in his stead._

Then louder once more, Prince Rhaegar spoke: “I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods, and the new.”

_I promise._

“Arise” she finished her words, almost dazed, but there was no great applause.

Not even the singers disrupted the silence that had enveloped the feast since the king’s declaration, as if each of them had frozen in their place.

Murmuring washed over them, then, silent and incoherent yet it was there.

As she sat down, still holding onto Rhaegar’s hand, she caught the eye of Queen Rhaella.

The Queen was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment.  
> If there's something bothering you about this Fanfic, also write that down in the comments- I appreciate your critisism.
> 
> Now, onto my thoughts and questions for this chapter:
> 
> First of all, we have the scene of the crime. We arrive in a carriage at the Great Sept of Baelor, and have some silent interactions between Ostaera and her father. Ostaera is afraid, panicking and at the same time tries to be calm. Rhaella orchestrated the entire event from start to finish, though, which gives her a bit of underlying security. She is dressed entirely in the colours of House Targaryen, up until they reached the doors into the sept and her father puts the "maiden cloak" on her shoulders. **Why would the Queen make that choice ?** The dress Ostaera wears was inspired by the Lily Gown from the House of Worth, as well as Emilia Clarke's gown from the 2018 Met Gala. 
> 
> When Ostaera notes that she indeed is "dolled up like she was a born daughter of House Targaryen", she let's that anger finally come out a bit, and her vengeance is intertwining with the numbness from before. She says, she'd burn down the Red Keep and the Iron Throne, and end the lineage of the dragonlords right that moment, if she could. **If you were her, how would you kill Aerys?**
> 
> If you notice a great amount of "bells ringing" parts in this chapter, that was intentional. I was listening to some Epic gregorian music, and I always have the Dies Irae part of "The Bells of Notre Dame" by Jonathan Young stuck in my head. 
> 
> Instead of writing out an entire wedding ceremony, during which nothing would really happen since Ostaera is trying not to listen, we skip through that, and leave the Sept. Awaiting there, in front of the crowd (probably the same spot where Ned Stark lost his head) is the crown Rhaella made. In front of the assembled Lords, Ladies and the smallfolk, Ostaera takes an oath and becomes the Princess of Dragonstone officially. This never happened in canon, f.e. with Margaery who would have the most experience with that, but **I hope you liked this addition to the ceremony? What benefit/symbol do you see here as to why it might have been added by Rhaella in the first place?** Ostaera also looses some of that fire she held earlier, she is somewhere in the interim and woe those caught in the path of her fury.
> 
> At the feast, we also get the presentation of the gift from House Tarth: within a great many flowers rests first a dagger. Thin like a needle, a stiletto knife. Then, there's a quill pen with a grip made from antlers, Lastly, Ostaera pulls out a necklace with pearls, as well as the sun and moon as the actual pendant. These are, for now, the only objects associated with House Tarth that she was given- all the wedding gifts from the evening before featured heavy Targaryen imagery (one being a literal dragon egg). **What kind of message does that send to the assembled lords?** On the back of her necklace, little words in High Valyrian are engraved, even though here they're actually changed names of Ancient Greek deities, with the initials of her dead family engraved in between. **Subtle but effective ?**
> 
> Afterwards, Ostaera makes the crucial mistake of looking at Aerys. While Ostaera is drowning in another panic attack, Aerys makes a comment we don't hear- he wants to invoke First Night (much like he did with Joanna, but worse), and it silences the lords and ladies around. While everyone is shocked, Astraeon walks up to defend his sister, which is a honourable but dumb decision to make. Thankfully, Ostaera manages to hold onto her promise of not letting anyone else die for her, and as she realizes that she's taller than Aerys, she plays the king. Rhaegar steps in, too, and speaks the Oath of the Sworn Sword for his new wife. **Did you like this particular scene? What about the implications, as well as Rhaella smiling at the end?** I wanted Ostaera to get out of this on her own, but when she offered herself, knowing full well that Aerys could not simply behead her on the spot (even if he wants to), Rhaegar did a Rhaegar. They're on their way to becoming a unit, but it's a long way.
> 
> Now that I have pushed back the Taj chapter, we will get to Valyria. Finally. It's gonna be fun. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird  
> P.S.: I am still sourcing names for the Wedding. The Red Wedding is sadly taken, and no blood was spilled, and the Purple Wedding feels wrong since neither did the King choke (sadly) nor was purple a prominent colour. I was thinking the _Black Wedding_ , but it sounds both epic and too edgy at the same time. **Let me know what you think of that!**


	19. Taj III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The dawn never brought an end to these undead sounds, like he had hoped, and the long sunbeams cast broad shadows, the lighter places the colour of a roaring fire. It was disconcerting, red and black making shapes out of the ruins that seemed to be alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> After having denied this particular chapter in favour of some King's Landing plots, we now finally get to see Valyria.  
> I had the entire thing written, and then changed my mind about parts of it, rewrote it entirely and now here we are. Something about the atmosphere just didn't click with me, but you know the feeling when your brain tells you it's not right but you don't know exactly what? Like your gut is unsatisfied with your performance the entire time, and just changing one minor details makes everything better.
> 
> This chapter in particular is dedicated to Hallowyd, much love. 
> 
> One last content warning before get into it- nothing too extreme. Our group does however stumble across some mummified bodies, I don't go into great detail, but it is there. 
> 
> However, without further ado.  
> Let's get right into today's chapter.
> 
> P.S. I edited the End Notes since apparently I was so tired yesterday, my brain just noped right out of spelling and grammar rules. Apologies for that.

# Taj III

Looking back, coming to Old Valyria had been a gamble of the highest order- and it had not paid off yet. Literally.

Chartering a vessel big enough to carry fifty men and their horses through the Smoking Sea and to Tyria had been an expensive venture. It had taken them an entire week to cross the canal, and Taj had almost given up then and there. The sight was terrible, and the ship had almost sunken no less than three times.

Only Phaeron seemed still enthusiastic, the men were weary. The horses were tired.

Some days it was the other way around- with tired men and weary horses.

The pirate they’d met, a man they called Saan most days, had sent them off at the closest opportunity, and though Taj had not really liked the man, he could respect that decision.

A fortnight ago they had cleared the range of jagged mountains, always looking South, and had reached the precipice that lead into what had once been the city of Valyria.

Not that it looked much like anything anymore, filled with black stone, the molten rock still warm to the touch but at least cold for millennia now. Hot winds, smelling like rotten eggs and decay, blew day and night and sometimes they could see some molten rock like glowing embers, shining in the distance.

The horses found sure footing in the sea-like ground, where the wind had smoothed over most of the dangerous edges. Dust was swirling around, getting into every crevice it could find, and by now every man in his little company had their shawls wrapped around their face day and night.

It was not a nice feeling, and looking through even the thinnest layer of linen, however faded, did not make for good visibility either.

The high towers of the city were kicked over, some broken further up than the others, some leaning on each other for whatever support they needed. It looked like some god had struck them down one by one.

A large gatehouse opened up in front of them, looking like the opened maw of some giant beast, the portcullis encased in cold, dripping stone like teeth.

It was large enough for three elephants to walk abreast, two rows high with enough room for a horse to spear. It must have been truly gigantic before the doom

Taj looked up as they rode through, watchful of the old steel and stone that could come down upon them at any moment. Yet, it held, and as they entered the ruins of Valyria proper, he breathed a sigh of relief.

They had made it.

Haunting winds blew through the broad streets, like a thousand wailing women, and the further they went the louder it seemed to get. Yet, they never seemed do cease, and every time Taj had thought them relenting they picked up with renewed vigour and louder than before.

The dawn never brought an end to these undead sounds, like he had hoped, and the long sunbeams cast broad shadows, the lighter places the colour of a roaring fire. It was disconcerting, red and black making shapes out of the ruins that seemed to be alive.

Roofs had been dislodged entirely, flung across pathways and broken over other houses like kindling, all covered in layers of blackened rock. The actual main street must be several feet beneath them, and Taj turned around to look at the gate house once more.

What monster had they made it for, that it needed to be this large?

Surely they would not walk a dragon through a gatehouse.

Could dragons even walk?

Not the best question to ask when in a land where dragons were rumoured to climb out of the flames themselves.

The most disturbing part about night time in Valyria was the defeaning silence. There were no wild animals, at least no true predators. Lizards, and snakes they had found and promptly eaten, but nothing larger than that.

Even the grass and trees were small, crippled almost, and held barely any fruit. Thorns, however, they did have. Terrifyingly large, too, and Taj had warned his men against touching them if they wanted to be taken back to the mainland.

He could not risk any of them infecting themselves with something more serious than scurvy.

In the city, there were no trees. Not even those encased in stone- everything seemed to have been fashioned by men.

Slaves.

Taj shuddered at the thought of all those hundreds of thousands of souls lost not only in the mines of the dragonlords, but buried just beneath his feet, too. Too slow to escape, too scared to run away.

It was a miracle, the rock had not turned red from all the blood that it must have met.

Keeping an eye out on their way, Taj soon noticed that the street was broadening- and a few hundred feet later, they reached what must have been a forum of some kind. It sat empty now, with only the skewered pillars of some temple sticking out of the ground every now and then, ripped away from where they had been built, too.

It was here, they found the first human remains, and Taj sat down from his horse swiftly, wrapping the reins around his forearms tightly. He’d rather be dragged to death than let his only way out run away now.

Kneeling down, knowing his men would keep the perimeter, he lifted the sun and age-bleached cloth away from the body.

The skin was tight around the old bones, black and grey like the dirt around them, the body inhumanely thin. Dried out, perfectly conserved by the heat and lack of predators in these parts.

Taj had seen vultures tear at a dead oxen, and he had seen bodies of drowned men and women alike.

This one, however, was new to him. Mummified, almost peaceful.

If you ignored the way he had wrapped one of his arms around his head, pressing it down into the dust, the other arm reaching forward in the direction of the destroyed temple. Clearly, terrified.

“An adventurer” he spoke his verdict, turning to see Gorys stepping up behind him, his eyes still deep into their sockets through the veil, “Must have come here without enough rations, and died from the thirst.”

“He won’t be the last one, I think” Gorys added, nodding in the direction of whatever remained of the temple’s roof.

Taj looked over, too, his eyes wandering over the broken dragon carvings on the front as well as the spiked gable, ending in yet another dragon head, bowed over the front in reverence.

There, nestled in one of the cracks, stood someone.

Taj blinked, rising to his feet, hands reaching for his blade slowly as he walked forwards. His horse followed him dutifully, Gorys next to him.

That someone was caught in a thin crack in the roof, half inside, half outside. He was leaning back, almost lazily, and Taj wondered what had happened to the poor fellow that he tried to climb through when he died.

Most likely he and the other poor sod behind them had been hallucinating, or worse- desperate.

“That’s going to be a mass grave” Taj said to his friend, and took the man stuck in the wall by his thin yet stiff arms. Gorys grabbed the shoulders and neck, and with what sounded like the crack of bones, they managed to wrestle the man free, lowering him onto the ground carefully. Dust came free, pebbles scattering around them.

A shining pendant was stuck to his chest, underneath a bare-thread white shirt, made from pure silver with a lion engraved into it. Taj pulled it loose with little issue, and turned it around to look at the back.

Three words were engraved into the back, and Taj handed it off to Gorys. A moment later, the voice of an excited Phaeron reached his ears, as he was still looking over the body for more information. A letter mayhaps, something that might tell of the last moments in their lives.

“Hear me Roar, it says” the Blackfyre exclaimed, which earned him some confused rumbling from those around them.

“It’s the words of House Lannister of Casterly Rock” he then added, still dazed and Taj could imagine him brushing over the pendant with his thumbs, “But I always thought, they were a golden lion.”

“Must have been a poor cousin” Gorys joked, now looking into the space created by the roof.

“You better look at this first, Taj” he added a moment later, and stepped back again, his dark brows furrowed harshly.

That could never mean something good.

Even though the sun was beating down on them, as well as the blasted red star that Phaeron had not stopped babbling about ever since it appeared in the sky some three nights ago, Taj made his men light torches and lanterns, taking his own firmly into his hands and handing his horse off to those remaining on guard outside.

Then, without hesitating even though his heart was nervously beating away in his chest, Taj climbed through the crack the man had died in.

Darkness enveloped him completely, and he pulled down the shawl.

The air was not as stale has he had expected, and on the other end of the former roof he could see that someone had broken through the wall and a part of the roof. Like a giant hammer had come down at least two times, the edges softened by the wind.

Gorys climbed through behind him, followed by ten men and Phaeron. Taj waited until all of them and their lights were inside, until he started moving. He’d rather not fall down a ditch without someone noticing.

As his light reached more and more of the area, he saw more and more mummified bodies curled into themselves. At least fifty or so men, all of them wearing some variation of armour, were spread out around the centre.

Someone had tried creating a fire, charcoal was still in what must have been an Old Valyrian fire bowl- dented and deformed, but still mostly intact. That might be worth taking with them.

He lit the bowl, watching as ambers glowed faintly, and then laid his torch down into it.

More lanterns were handed into the room at his orders, and those outside started circling around to meet them at the broader entry.

Soon, the room was filled with whatever light they could afford without smoke clogging their lungs.

There were several sets of heavy, steel plate armour, some of it even gilded, as well as some rusted swords they quickly discarded.

Rings, bracelets, necklaces and some fine helmets were added to a collection of trinkets they would take North with them. All of it bore some kind of insignia, sometimes it was more lions, sometimes something else. Taj did not even pretend to know what the shit might be worth or when it was from, but that did not stop Phaeron from talking about the expeditions he knew about.

Taj circled around the room the fifth time, now focusing on something other then gold. Yet it was another golden shimmer, tucked into a corner, that caught his eye.

This body had been placed with more dignity than all of the others they had found before, hands folded above his chest, clasped around a very long blade. A greatsword, dusted black like everything else, but as Taj wiped his sleeves over it, a pattern of lighter and darker steel looked up at him as clear as the day it had been forged.

Valyrian steel.

The man holding the blade was half-wrapped in what must have been his own cloak, faded out velvet or something of the like, with golden embroidery of more lions around the edge. For how old it must be, it looked well, too. Whatever colour the rest of the fabric might have been, the gold well made up for it.

As he turned to uncover whatever had drawn his attention in the first place, Taj almost fell backwards onto his ass.

In the long whitened hair of the man, his beard reaching into his high collar, rested an actual crown. Made of gold, with more damned lions, and a giant ruby at the centre of his forehead.

Carefully, Taj pulled the crown away from the shrunken skull. It was heavier than he’d thought, with enough weight you could kill someone with enough swing behind it.

The little teeth of the crown were a bit dull, but the gold remained as precious as it had been however long ago the king died.

“We must have found some important people!” he called out, and his men turned to face him, some holding more trinkets in their hands, others packing and counting golden coins from various pouches on the men.

They all let out a shout of victory when they saw the bounty he had found them, as he lifted it with one hand high above his head.

Even those outside caught sight of the large ruby, and knew what it meant.

Coin. Food. Women.

Gorys stalked over like the hyena he was, grinning broadly, and more skull - like in the darkness than outside. His laughter echoed around the room, but this ghost Taj was not scared of. They patted each other on the back roughly, and laughed in relief.

Handing the find to his friend, shaking his head as Gorys put it on his own head without hesitation, prancing outside to present it to their men, Taj bent down and went about freeing the greatsword now, too.

Whatever had befallen the men, it had taken the king first. They must have respected him even though his idiocy killed them. If Taj had been in their position, he’d taken the blade as soon as the ceremony was over and fought their way out.

Or asked for them to behead him with the damned thing- something else, at least, then letting it just lay around uselessly. It was Valyrian Steel, by R’hllor.

The sheath had long since shrunken, and crumbled around the ever-sharp edge, and thus Taj relieved his backpack off one of his mantles to wrap it in. They’d need to hide that from any pirates on the way back.

That night around a fire, far from the grave of the Westerosi expedition they’d found, the blade changed hands a lot, each of his men holding it, swinging it, and laughing as it cut their last pieces of dried meat without so much as a flinch.

It reflected the firelight beautifully, and Taj wondered what they’d do with it once the Company was reunited.

He thought of those who wielded greatswords, and the first on his mind was certainly Strickland.

Phaeron would probably try and assert some kind of power over it, but he would not be able to swing it properly- not yet, at least. He’d probably throw a tantrum about the golden lion pommel, too.

It was well made, and Taj would not mind reusing that piece on his own blade. After this trip, his sword deserved some decoration. He could not use the Valyrian steel, he was shit with anything but his trusted bastard sword.

Taj laughed as Black Balaq got his time with the sword, waving it around so that the light from both the fire and the red star above them caught in the steel. Then, since he was last, he placed it in its rags again.

For the first time in weeks, the men rested easy, talking amongst themselves and ignoring the wailing of the wind that had taken up once more. Tents were built, inside a ruin without an actual roof, the entrance easy to overlook.

Taj walked through the rows, greeting each of those who’d come along, listening to those still awake, and asking about any injuries that might have occurred.

It settled his mind before going to sleep, and it calmed the men down too, in this strange land at what seemed like the edge of the world.

He rolled into his blankets with one last look at the comet, and thought it might be a good omen yet.

Dawn had not yet risen, when he was shaken awake by Gorys who looked rather more worried than usual. Hastily, Taj sat up, pulling his leather chest piece on as he got up. His legs protested, but after a stretch, he followed Gorys. They got to a wall and Gorys, who had been taking watch, climbed onto it, waiting calmly as Taj clambered up behind him, careful not to wake up the entire encampment.

Someone, however, was already awake. Some twenty feet out, back turned towards them and looking in a North by North-West direction, sat Phaeron fucking Blackfyre.

A hand on his chest halted Taj.

“He’s snuck out ten minutes ago, woke up like he’d seen a ghost and walked straight through the tents and over the wall. A man possessed, I tell you.”

“You think it was the wine?” Taj asked, tightening his laces and sinking down into a low crouch. Gorys sat down, feet not yet reaching the ground.

“Nah, this was something else. I know what he is like after a strong drink, and this ain’t it, Taj” Gorys rubbed at his chin, the first signs of a beard showing. The sound matched that of his voice, and Taj thought it suited him.

“Something else, huh” he answered, elbows resting on his knees, and turned to look the same direction as Phaeron.

Clouds of dust had settled over the horizon, and nothing much could be seen anyways beyond the damned walls.

They stayed like that for an hour, and Taj stayed a while after Gorys turned to lay down on the wall and rest, ready to spring into action as soon as Phaeron dared to move.

A horse neighed, somewhere between sleepy and annoyed, but Taj did not turn his head away and neither did Phaeron.

What had gotten into the boy’s head?

The ground rumbled, and Taj stumbled face-forward off the wall.

It shook him awake, and has he caught himself on his feet, rolling over his shoulder as if avoiding a blow from Toyne, another rumble rippled through the ground.

The men were awake at once, clamouring loudly, and Taj got up. On the wall, Gorys had disappeared, his red hair most likely on the other side.

Phaeron was standing now, too, still looking northwards like a moth.

“BOY!” Taj shouted, and that finally got the Blackfyre’s attention, sending him scrambling back to the encampment as a third rumble made him loose his footing. 

He crashed down hard, not able to catch himself like Taj had, but he got up a moment later.

His purple eyes were manic, pupils tiny black dots even in the dim light, and Taj only hesitated a moment ere he slapped him again.

“I dreamed of dragons!” Phaeron exclaimed, undeterred by the slap, walking like he’d smoked too much.

“Hush- you woke up the entire mountain” Taj said grimly, grabbing the boy by his upper arms and dragging him through the entrance.

“An idiot is what he is” one of the men called out, as they packed up their bags and saddled the horses.

Thankfully, they were at least still calm. Somewhat.

Only the black raven Saan had given them, his cage mostly covered by some rags to calm him, was releasing loud screams, shaking said cage wildly.

“Can’t let him out yet” Taj warned Denys who was in charge of the bird for today, “As soon as we reach the mountain-side at the end of the day, he’s off.”

Denys nodded, knowing his duty well, and Taj thanked him as he walked past to his own tent to pack up.

He hated the sounds- the rumbling was worse than all of the winds together could have ever been. He threw looks over his shoulder every five minutes, and in-between fastening all the knots on his horse. They could not be caught off-guard, not when they could be leaving.

South-East lay their destination, Saan would come down from the Gulf of Grief soon now and meet them then. It had put a limit on their exploration, but now, as the sun rose and the sky was a pale gold with all the dusty clouds hanging over it, Taj was glad for it.

It did not seem to get brighter today, there was not one patch of blue at all above them, and both the sun and the red star were like specks of blood in silver-gold hair. Angry, glaring down at them as if they’d been responsible for whatever was about to happen.

Knowing their luck, they could very well be.

“UP!” Taj called out, seating himself firmly in the saddle and all around him, the men did the same. Even Phaeron followed, still turning to look north.

Taj glanced, one last time, to assure himself that their back was safe- or as safe as it could be in these lands.

A darker cloud drew over the horizon behind the mountainside, casting it into shadow.

As he watched, black plumes started rising, and he did not like that at all.

If another Doom was upon them, they’d have even less shelter than the Westerosi sods. He’d think on that when they had a position with a better outlook.

He whistled, over yet another deep rumble, and lead his horse into a brisk canter. If they got behind the city walls, they’d be a bit safer. They had held during the Doom, and they’d do it again.

High, sturdy, and with enough between them and whatever was upon them to break it. Like waves in the quay.

They cleared the capitol, the sky above them darkening with every passing minute, but Taj urged his horse on and told all those off who commented on the goings on.

Now was not the time.

He drew his shawl closer around his head, patting his trusty mare on her neck, murmuring some calming words. Her ears were alarmed, however, and he knew she would not be able to keep up the same pace for the entire day.

They’d have to rest, water them, and change the weight around so that no horse was fatigued due to carrying too much gold.

A cave would be a death sentence, they had to hope for another mountain.

Warm wind blew over them, and lightning flickered over the planes in front of them, and Taj almost breathed a sigh of relief as thick rain drops started their unrelenting descend on his head. He pulled his shawl off, relishing the feeling of the drops running over the bare skin on his head, sizzling.

Gorys laughed in relief next to him, pushing a hand through his ragged hair, now the colour of fresh blood, his face paint streaming down but he did not care.

Taj wiped his hand across his face, smearing his own warpaint uncaringly.

Rain they could deal with, especially after the never-ending dry heat of the ruins.

Another thunder echoed over them, and for a moment Taj thought it brought with it some deeper sounds.

As the men started another chant, gaudy and merry, he chuckled and took a drink from his wineskin. He joined them, slowing their pace down to a gentler walk, eyeing the silhouette of some pillars- most likely trees in their former life- for some shelter. Probably an hour or so off.

“Get the oilcloth ready when I tell you!” he shouted back, turning around to look at the group lined almost orderly.

In the distance, the clouds were now almost entirely black, and only hints of red still blinked through.

Red.

Hints of red.

Lightning crashed through, breaking off on one of the large towers in the city behind them, bright against the darkness.

A second one followed, not a moment later, and as he was watching, five-seven-ten bolts of red lightning broke through the air and struck down like blows from a Water dancer.

Thunder rumbled, and Taj stopped as his men moved past him, more red lightning streaking across the sky above them.

They were sitting doves, waiting to be hit by the storm like idiots.

“DOWN!” he called out, dropping from the back of his mare, and making her follow to the ground, now looking around for that cave he had been disregarding earlier.

A hole in the ground, anything, to get them away from here.

Gorys was the first one on the ground, still next to Phaeron, both of them like beacons in the darkness.

They settled down now, horses were talked to keep them from abandoning ship in the middle of the desert.

Taj called for more eyes on potential safe-spaces, the area he had seen earlier no longer an option.

All throughout his commands, more lightning struck down in the ruins of Valyria, like they were drawn to something in there. If whatever magics remained in there would give them some protection, Taj would not scoff at it now.

Kneeling in the sludge, somehow still hard under his bones, an arm on his mare’s neck, the other shielding his eyes, he watched as further in the distance, more lightning lit up the sky.

Sometimes, it seemed to come from the ground itself, rising up instead. Like a geyser made of lightning.

Not a comforting thought, and Taj abandoned it.

“FOUND SOMETHING!” John Mudd called out, and Taj could have kissed the man for his eye-sight. Signalling for Mudd to take the lead, Taj slowly made to stand up, feet remaining on the ground, and searched for Gorys in the dark.

He still had Phaeron on a leash, or his horse at least. The others started winding rope around their waists, getting their hands free. Swords were wrapped tighter into whatever wet cloth they had left.

Everything was wet now, anyways.

The flashes of more lightning, was it getting more?, lit their way to an outcropping in the stone. It must have been a guard-tower or something of the like, toppled over now, but they managed to creep through the ripped-open side and into what used to be its third or fourth floor.

The ground was level, the horses getting tucked into the corners as the men started assembling around and behind Taj to watch the goings on.

Lanterns were lit, the faint light spilling over the floor, colliding at times with that of those from the sky.

More rumbles shook the ground, and as Taj saw more lightning, striking down into the towers of the ruins every time he as much as moved his eyes, he focused his eyes on the further horizon. More red was now shimmering in the black-as-death clouds.

Then gold, and orange.

“It’s burning” Phaeron whispered, “They’re burning.”

Another rumble, followed instantly by a bone-shattering, loud, deep roar. As if the mountains themselves had released whatever cries they had held in for so long.

Fire rose from the ground in the distance, like sparks at a forge, but so big it seemed to envelop the entire distant sky.

A shadow crossed the rivers of golden-red that lit up the mountain, and they all followed it with their eyes, watching as a streak of even brighter fire burned across the sky itself.

Then another streak, more _roars_. Coming from that thing.

It was so large.

Taj could not take his eyes of the humongous shape as it soared over the ruins, avoiding the streaks of the ever-growing onslaught of lightning like it knew where they would strike. It roared again, and Taj did not know whether to run or hide.

They could not run- they would be dead within an hour, surely.

If they stayed, this tower would soon join the temple as the last resting place of that blasted sword.

With the sound of a thousand stones aching and screaming, the dragon interrupted Taj’s dark panic, suddenly colliding into one of the towers with a level of grace, Taj had never expected from a beast so large.

Its wings flared out behind it, catching in the wind, and it threw its head back. Relishing it, as yet another high plume of flames escaped its maw into the sky.

Taj sank to his knees, or mayhaps he had been kneeling ever since the dragon had risen from the ashes of whatever mountain had kept it.

A dragon.

A living fucking dragon.

He pressed his balled fists into the black stone, feeling the sludge slip between them, and with tears streaming down his face, his forehead coming to rest on the ground, finally, the high, uncontrollable, painful laughter that had wanted to escape his lungs for what felt like an eternity, broke out.

Fuck the Gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked, please leave a Kudos or a comment.  
> If there's something bothering you about this Fanfic, also write that down in the comments. I really appreciate your criticism.
> 
> This chapter was a big one, just like the one that predated it- it's starting to get more complicated. Now onto my own thoughts and questions for Taj III:
> 
> Old Valyria is still a very mystical place, and although we know some of what its geography looks like/can infer from real life, it's still very much secret. I characterized it here as a place where the winds never stop howling, everything is buried underneath several feet of black hardened lava, the surfaces smoothened after centuries of said winds blowing across. A desolate tundra with not much wildlife in it, beyond hardened animals. **How does that fit with your view of Valyria, as in the land?** Since we're most likely going to bumble about a bit more, **is there anything you would like to see in particular?**
> 
> Much like the land, the city of Valyria is also an enigma. After the Doom, it must have looked like Pompeii, just so much worse (with 14 vulcanoes, I mean...). We enter through a gate, and there's just a bunch of nothing. No large excavations, no people. Just emptiness. Parts of buildings flung across like a child's toys. **Was that an apt description, or did you expect more glory and craftsmanship?**
> 
> In a forum of sorts, they come across people from a Westerosi expedition, and like most of you probably realized, they indeed found the last resting place of King Tommen II. Before we get to that: **How did reading about the actual discovery make you feel? Was it a bit horror-esque, like I wanted it to be? Tense? You can't really jumpscare people while reading, but I hoped I did a bit with the one stuck in the crack in the wall.  
>  Also, Taj does partake in some looting. **Opinions on that?** **
> 
> Taj, more by accident although they would have found him at some point, discovers King Tommen II himself, crown on his head and Brightroar clutched in his hands. **Was that too easy? Did they earn that sword?** Since a lot of ancestral swords are named after blades much older, I wonder what happened to the originals.
> 
> After a rather peaceful evening around the fire, with some fooling around with their new discovery, Taj gets awoken by Gorys because Phaeron Blackfyre snuck out of the encampent to go look at something. He dreams of dragons, which is the first time that gets mentioned at all, certainly enhanced by his proximity to the ruins. He was staring at the fourteen flames that we know the dragon later comes from. **Knowing whatever you do/suspect about dragons and their connection to people, what do you suspect would wake dragons?** Personally, I find it a bit disconcerting that the supposed connection of incest, fire and blood would be the only way for dragons to come to life. Valyrians weren't special, just very lucky. 
> 
> After this last piece falls into place, Taj wakes up a second time to the rumbling of the ground. The company packs up, anticipating some kind of disaster, then relax a bit when it starts raining. A dumb mistake, but an honest one. Then Taj turns and shouts some orders, and sees hints of red. They can't see whatever is left of the 14 flames from here, but they can see the sky. Lightning starts coming down, and it is followed by the first living dragon of this Fanfic. Not hatched from an egg somewhere, but just...in Valyria. **Opinions on that? What about they way it was introduced, circling the city while that was being struck by lightning multiple times every second, and then landing there?** To me, lightning is one of the most fascinating natural phenomenons- and scientists are still debating about actual explations. It's mind-boggling. That was always part of my vision for the first dragon, since it looks epic, and I debated whether to go full "Alduin at Helgen" on them but I decided on a little taste for now. We have become rather desensitized to dragons, I think but **did you thing Taj's reaction was adequate?**
> 
> That is it from me for now, the next chapter is with Viorel somewhere entirely different.
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	20. Viorel II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you not fear for all the things we do not know?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> Just a short note today: Be safe, make yourself a favoured hot beverage and enjoy this chapter.   
> You deserve it, you worked hard, you worried over little details and you are amazing at what you do, even if it doesn't feel like it.  
> Even if you fucked up today, that's alright. It happens. Feel the pain, acknowledge it, and if you're ready, move on. 
> 
> Don't know where that came from, but anyways.  
> Without further ado.
> 
> Let's get right into today's chapter.
> 
> P.S.: Guess who managed to finally get over their ex almost-boyfriend (it's complicated) they've been in love with for three years? it me!

# Viorel II

The house was cosy, with the cold northern winds blowing through and around each wall, the heavy stones and wooden shutters kept it at bay. A fire was burning in the hearth, Lorelei and Adolar wrapped in blankets in front of it, holding a thin book in their hands and reading it aloud.

Viorel herself, a spotty apron wrapped around her fur-lined dress, was seated on the upholstered seat, filled with straw and wool, and was stitching up a hole in Adolar’s shirt.

The bells of the sept had rung some time ago, dusk settling over the small village of Widow’s Watch, and the sea beyond already black.

The door swung open, then, and wrapped in thick furs, Bowen entered the little cottage they had found themselves in.

The children sprang up at once, stumbling over their legs to reach him.

He bent down, even though his body must ache from the day’s work in the cold woods, and let himself be shoved to the ground by the two little ones. His eyes settled on her, and she smiled softly at the chaotic display in front of her.

Bowen got up, shrugging out of his outer layer and bent down to kiss her in greeting.

“My lady Stormare, how are you feeling?” he asked, ignoring the sounds of disgust voiced by the children.

Viorel let her hand come to rest on her swollen belly, where she was carrying her husband’s child underneath her heart.

“Big, but well” she answered, caressing the new life softly. Bowen pressed another kiss to her forehead, sitting down on the furs next to her, stretching his feet towards the fire.

She had travelled across the Seven Kingdoms, fared the stormy winter winds of the Narrow Sea at the Fingers, had made love to him with fifty sailors in the next cabin over. She knew his every scar, his every muscle, and every expression on his hard face.

“The Princess is with child. The minstrels sing of a young dragon with sapphires for eyes” his voice was tired, dark and almost silent.

Viorel let her eyes sink close, not voluntarily but they just did, embracing the darkness with welcoming arms, hands coming to press against her face.

“How…it cannot…”

Tears were swimming in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks.

“It is the Prince’s, my love. The King has not touched her” Bowen whispered into her ears, but Viorel could only turn her face into his neck, succumbing to the thumping pain in her heart.

Word of the thrice dammed wedding had even reached Widow’s Watch, a day filled with celebration almost three moon turns ago now, and of the steely words exchanged. The _Sapphire Wedding_ , the singers called it, singing of the fine prince who knelt to swear an oath to his lady love.

His lady love, as if Rhaegar had been the one to return five years after knowing his lady, presenting her with a sword, with honour gained, and hardship earned. As if Rhaegar had ever fought a day in his pompous golden life, as if he was worthy of a woman like Ostaera.

Not only her lady’s husband, no, her knight, too.

The father of her unborn child.

Viorel felt sick, with anger roaring in her throat.

Had Ostaera been as angry at the dragonlords as Viorel was, or had she felt the same numb cold in Bowen’s heart?

Viorel wished she could stand by her friend’s side. She should have been there, to right the long black train she had been made to wear. To embrace her in the night when terror overwhelmed them, but instead she was so far from King’s Landing it seemed a different land.

She did not trust in lords anymore, as long as they did not wear the colours of Tarth she did not care for them.

“Mama?” the little voice ripped her from the thoughts quite suddenly, and as she looked up, Lorelei and Adolar had already clambered into Bowen’s lap.

She almost fell into the darkness then, her mind apologizing over and over to the shadow in a blue gown with blue eyes she saw in front of her.

It was safer this way, less questions asked by those around them- but it pained her nonetheless, to have them forget their true parents. To them, the Lady Ostaera was a legendary warrior who shared the name with the new Princess, and Ser Emmerich her true companion.

Sometimes, the two awoke crying in the middle of the night, Adolar telling of his nightmares, and every time Viorel sang the little ballad of Ostaera and Emmerich to them, when they themselves had fought against darkness, or the Others, or dragons. Lorelei always remained silent, but sometimes she would hum another melody, the lullaby of Tarth.

Once, Adolar had asked about a black stag he had seen, but she had told him that black stags were good.

She might hate House Baratheon, but she could not let the little ones tattle to the other children in the village. Stark and Baratheon were allied, the youngest son of House Stark and the eldest of Baratheon fast friends for years now.

There was even talk of another marriage to fortify the alliance, but Viorel did not put much stock in the words of travelling merchants. Only the singers truly knew their stories, not confusing the names of the Southern families when they arrived in the seaside taverns on their way to the Karhold.

Lord Lannister had finally made an announcement, and the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock was staying at Riverrun. Viorel had even laughed at the little jaunt the singer had sung about a golden trout with a lion’s mane.

The lioness of the Rock, however, had been sent further North than even Viorel had expected, staying at the Eyrie to meet her betrothed. A winged lion was a truly terrifying image, however, and in the dark of the night Viorel had wondered to herself what Lord Lannister was trying to achieve.

Lady Daerya had raised her to play a highborn’s games, and Viorel was determined to not let these opportunities go to waste. Widow’s Watch was far away from the hustle of the biggest castles, and as soon as this babe had stepped into the world, she was determined to continue their way onwards.

Lord Stark was a clever man, Viorel had learned, shrewd and ruthless. He would see through their disguises, for he had seen Ostaera in person, and even though it was a gamble, Viorel felt herself itching to return to the games at court.

Ostaera had disliked them, always, and secretly Viorel had admired her friend’s steadfast opinions. She herself could never give up these figments of power Lady Tarth had offered her, and she had eaten up each morsel like a woman starving.

Viorel needed truths about her friend, not stories woven and distorted. It was a stupid decision, she knew, and though Bowen trusted her judgement she knew he was unsure whether to truly give up the little home they had made in Widow’s Watch.

To her, however, it was not truly home. She did not know the men and women living here, did not want to grow attached, even though they meant safety.

Viorel had tried recalling all the details she had once learned about the North and its people, but scarcely any of it had truly stuck.

“I have thought about…your wishes” Bowen said, reading her mind so easily as she did his, “Winterfell is not safe for us. It’s the home of the Lord Paramount, there’s bound to be many eyes on the place.”

“You’re right” she sighed, cradling Lorelei’s blonde head in her hands, “But I know you have thought of something. Offer your opinion, husband.”

“I shall never tire of you calling me that,“ he smiled into her hair, “And you are right. A letter came into the workshop today, from White Harbour even. They’re searching for men to restore the abandoned castle of Moat Cailin for young Lord Eddard.”

“Moat Cailin?” Viorel asked, scrunching her eyes, letting her mind wander down the King’s Road through the Barrowlands until it reached the border of the Neck, “That is quite far South.”

“Indeed. It was ordered by Lord Stark himself, it’s to become Lord Eddard’s seat once he returns from the Vale. The stonemasons have been sent for from all over the North, but Lord Flint has promised his carpenters to be sent. They’re looking for volunteers…”

“Did you?”

“Mayhaps…”

“It was a well-made decision, my love.”

“I hoped you’d say that. The men have been speaking a lot about the place, it’s been abandoned for so long, but Lord Stark wants to raise it to its former glory. Whatever that means.”

“We’re leaving?” Adolar said, and he looked rather excited at the prospect. He had taken to travelling far more than even Viorel herself, running underfoot on the vessel they had taken from Maidenpool. He was talking a lot, sometimes only muttering under his breath, but talking nonetheless. Lorelei, on the other hand, she had not spoken since Emmerich had been laid to rest.

“Yes, we are. To a broken keep, where only three towers remain standing in cold swamps. The Kings of Winter defended the North against the South for centuries.”

“Did Ostaera and Emmerich ever pass through it?” Adolar waved an imaginary sword through the air, always keen to claim he was ready to wield live steel.

“Mayhaps their ghosts have” Viorel whispered, letting her eyes find what remained of her passion in her soul, reflecting the firelight as she smiled.

Adolar squealed at the sound of ghosts.

“I don’t like ghosts, mama.”

“Ghosts are everywhere, Adolar. That is their way. They haunt us, sometimes well-meaning, sometimes ill.”

“Well-meaning ghosts?” Bowen asked, leaning back to watch her tell her stories to the children. Love for this man roared in her, but she only smiled at him with all the tenderness she had left, and hoped it was enough for this moment.

“Yes, my lord. Well-meaning. They dance through clearings in the woods, and look through the eyes of the heart tree. They tell stories of long past legends, to remind us of what is to come.”

“Winter!” Adolar cried, as if he was off to a great battle, and Lorelei pushed her face into Bowen’s chest to hide from the world.

“Aye” Viorel intoned the northern brogue she had tried to learn from the fisher women on the docks, “Winter is coming. The ghosts come with it, and they tell of how they defeated winter itself in the Age of Heroes. They do not tell half-truths, they do not wish to frighten, but what they tell of is fear itself.”

“And why are we going to the Moat Cai-Caitlin?”

“Cailin, love” Viorel corrected, “We will go there, because your father will find good work there. The sea will be far, instead there will be drowning forests.”

Adolar nodded, pretending to be satisfied with that answer, but Viorel was not fooled. There would be a great many questions for the next few moon turns, and Adolar would be restless until they had left again.

Sometimes, she wondered if his energy would ever turn into anger. He sometimes seemed so close to rage, which neither Ostaera nor Emmerich had ever displayed. But much like Lorelei, that terrible night must have impacted him greatly.

It had changed them all, but where Viorel remembered every sting in her hand where she had slapped that guard, the little ones never spoke of it. They only dreamed.

“It is insanity, Viorel” Bowen said, his arms crossed, as he looked her up and down.

“I will not break, I promise. It is a good opportunity, for both of us. We should take it.”

“I do not care for money, we have to be safe. For them…for our children.”

“Do you not fear for all the things we do not know? I _have_ to know what is happening South, Bowen, I cannot go on living cut off from the goings on. What if something happens to Ostaera and we do not find out about it for months? I cannot let her…her be in pain…or worse. Please.”

“I know, love, and we will leave to the Moat as soon as it does not endanger you or the little one. I can’t lose both of you.”

Viorel stepped into his arms readily, wrapping herself in them: “I am not made of glass, and pregnant women are able to travel.”

“What if they come when we’re in the middle of nowhere? I don’t know shit about bringing a child into the world…if only Christoffer were here.”

It was not only their old maester the two of them hoped for. Sometimes Viorel found herself waking up to the sounds of knocks on the door, as if Ostaera and Emmerich would step through. Ghosts, indeed.

“I am only halfway, Bowen. I do not feel sick anymore, and by boat we shall reach White Harbor easier than we reached it before. Do you remember how I was on that journey?”

Bowen laughed into her neck, and Viorel shivered, wrapping herself tighter into his arms: “Aye, I remember. Sick one half, insatiable the other.”

“All of it your fault” she taunted, he laughed again and she revelled in the sound. His heart seemed lighter in the evening than it did in the morning, mayhaps it was that he returned to them instead of leaving.

“I could never say no to you” he answered, her large man all soft and tender, “And I have never regretted it. Don’t make me regret it now, alright?”

“I won’t. Widow’s Watch will never make us be…happy. Not truly, it is too forlorn.”

“They’re good people, Viorel.”

“I know, but we will not be one of them. Just outsiders.”

He remained silent at that, knowing it to be the truth.

“Moat Cailing could mean more than personal gain. None of those coming to work there will be from there, a new community. Like us, and we’ll get lost in the crowd of arrivals.”

“Is that why you want to go with the others on the morrow?”

She nodded: “Let us go with them, Bowen, and find friendship on the long way.”

He was still hesitant, she knew, and she loved him for it. There was no decision Bowen had ever made with haste, even wedding her had been a long planned venture.

Yet, he relented.

Moat Cailin was more of a ruin than Viorel had anticipated, as they first set eyes on it, she thought it just another crumbled hill, but soon enough they rounded another winding path and she saw the smoke rising from inside the tallest tower.

Lorelei was standing up behind her on the cart, her arms wrapping around Viorel’s neck and she laid her hands on them to steady the girl.

Through a half crumbled wall, the small procession of three carts rolled, the courtyard beyond the wall laid out with wooden planks. Men, their strong chests bared though the winds were cold, strode past with cut up trees on their shoulders.

Women mingled around, bringing buckets with water and stoking various fires while doing repairs of their own. Blankets were embroidered, wood painted and gossip exchanged. Viorel smiled as she watched one of the elder women chase off a large hound from the venison on the table in front of her, and even more so when she spotted another girl who was pregnant much like her.

The oxen that had pulled them all the way from White Harbor, on the orders of the Lord Paramount himself, came to a jostling halt underneath one of the wooden roofs that had already been assembled, and Bowen jumped down.

Adolar followed suit, running off already and Viorel let him. The little boy always returned, and he would so now, too. Lorelei stayed behind, letting herself be lifted from the cart by Bowen, making a little sound as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head ere he turned to help Viorel down.

The little one in her belly was making themselves rather known, growing bigger, and Viorel was looking forward to the day she did not feel like a lumbering heap anymore. Bowen quite loved her for it, though Viorel found that hard to believe most of the time.

“Come over, Stormare, let’s find our women some place to rest!” Holystone Jack called out to them, one of the other carpenters that had journeyed with them from Widow’s Watch.

He was tall, like Bowen, but with a hair of shockingly red hair that his wife Larra braided back sometimes. Larra, steadying her one-year old son on her hips, stepped over to Viorel and Lorelei as the men wandered off to find their lodgings.

She was a calm woman, shy and keeping to herself, but she was kind. Viorel found that to be a much better trait to have than being boisterous but cruel.

“I hope this entire place does not drown in the mud…” Viorel muttered, as she lead the way to the women she had spied earlier. Mayhaps the elder one would have same advice and tasks for them.

“That is bound to happen sometime” Larra answered, looking up to look at the banners of House Stark and House Reed fluttering side by side on the largest tower.

The elderly woman turned around, dressed in pelts and with her long curly hair unkempt and wild- more so than Viorel at noticed at first glance.

“Good, some more hands!” she called out, drawing the attention of more people around them, some of them walking over then to greet the newcomers.

“We just arrived from Widow’s Watch, with some carpenters in tow” Viorel answered, quite proud of her accent. The woman did not look at her weirdly, which she counted as a success.

“Good on ya, we’re in need of those. And some women to keep them from bashing each other’s hands in. I’m Arya Fenn” she gestured to the little crest emblazoned on her chest, a purple shield with three lily pads on it.

With a certain amount of shock, Viorel realized the woman was wearing breeches- well made with sturdy quilting, and boots that reached her knees easily.

“Viorel Stormare, and that is my friend Larra Acer.”

They shook hands, and Arya Fenn’s hands were rough in her own.

“We have some rooms in the Gatehouse Tower, especially with you in that condition, Viorel. Fancy name, that.”

Viorel tried not to let herself be caught off-guard by those words. Her name was indeed different from those in the North, but she had never noticed how much it stood out until now.

“My father was from the South” she lied, and Larra’s head turned to look at her, “But my mother was a northern lass till the day she died.”

“Well then” Arya clapped her hands together, “Let’s get you situated and then we’ll introduce you to Lord Brandon.”

“Of House Stark?” Larra asked, her brown eyes under the white cap widening. Arya chuckled.

“Aye, that he is” she started outright laughing, “Send by his lord father to oversee the buildings, more likely to stop him from fathering bastards on every noble lady he comes across.”

Viorel scrunched her nose. Arya noticed and waved her hands around.

“He ain’t bad, Viorel. Just a boy in love, you know how they are” the Fenn explained, “Moping around until you give them something to do.”

Larra laughed at that, and Viorel smiled along.

“Who was he in love with?”

“Was? Is, I think. Goes on long rides every damn day, probably to do some more moping. It is the Lady of the Rills, Lady Barbrey Ryswell, that he’s set his eyes on but his father is looking for someone finer than a Northern girl.”

“You think that wrong?” Viorel asked, for Lady Tarth had always told the girls about the importance of listening to every opinion offered, even just to disregard it.

“No, let them marry who they think is right. It doesn’t really matter, North’s been marrying into each other’s families so long, everyone’s related to everyone else anyway. Better a Tully than a Bolton, that’s for sure.”

Arya spat on the ground, her portly figure shoving open a heavy looking door, and they walked up some lopsided stairs until they reached a chamber on the second floor, filled to the brim with beds and made into smaller rooms with wooden walls.

“It’s not much, the Princess is sleeping on finer beds, but alas. She won’t build castles either, that’s for sure.”

Viorel tried not to react to the mention of Ostaera, or defend her. It was hard not to, but she prevailed, focusing on finding a space for her little family that offered some protection. Larra followed suit, choosing the space next to theirs.

Lorelei sat herself on one of the old wooden chests filled with their belongings, staring out of the boarded up window.

Like Bowen before, Viorel placed a kiss into her hair, holding onto her little girl for a moment before she continued unpacking.

“Is she alright?” Larra asked, her son dozing off on their bed, folding up blankets and building up a little retreat around her.

Viorel sighed slightly: “Most likely not, and I don’t know if she ever will be.”

“You lied to Arya…”

“Aye, I did.”

“Why?”

It was the bluntest Viorel had ever experienced Larra, but the younger woman did not relent.

“It’s better to not be an outsider, that’s why we came. That and the money. Would be useless to just say we're from the South again, and ruin that.”

Larra nodded as if she understood every facet of what Viorel had just said.

“You never said why you came to Widow’s Wail, anyway.”

“I never thought you to be that nosy.”

Larra recoiled, and Viorel almost felt bad for her. But she had to protect her family, all of it.

The girl mumbled an apology, and turned away to finish her unpacking.

Sometime later, their men came clambering up the stairs, laughing and in frighteningly good spirits, lightening the mood instantly. As if the women had sworn to not speak of their quarrel, they explained their good fortune to the men without any awkward pauses. Mayhaps, Viorel thought, she ought to make an effort to stay as Larra’s friend. They were both in need of those.

“There will be food at the fires, everyone’s responsible for their own, but why don’t we share?” Jack asked, enthused and as lively as ever. He must have swallowed the sun, nothing could sour his disposition, not even long weeks of journey through the cold. How he and Larra had found each other, Viorel did not know, but she was glad for it.

“Let us do that, Larra and I will make you something fine to eat” Viorel said, catching Larra’s eyes and angling her head in question. Larra smiled.

“We will. You can hurry of and get to know your fellow workers.”

“Wise, aren’t they” Jack laughed, slapped Bowen on his back strongly, and swept over to kiss his woman good-bye.

Bowen shook his head, but approached Viorel to do the same: “I’ve seen Adolar run past once or twice, he’s befriended one of the butcher’s boys already. I bet, he knows the names of every hound in the ruins, too.”

“Don’t forget the ghosts” Viorel added, kissed Bowen and watched him leave with a warm heart, then turned back to unpack their manifold cloaks and gowns.

“Did you see that Arya wore breeches?” Larra asked into the comfortable silence, sounding rather adoring. She was holding one of her own cotton dresses up, as if she imagined fashioning it into a pair of trousers then and there.

“Aye, she must be out and about rather a lot.”

Larra hummed in agreement.

“I wonder what this place will turn us into, then” the younger one laughed.

“I will not wear breeches, ever” Viorel exclaimed, “Especially not with the little one trying to tear my dresses apart.”

“Bowen’d surely appreciate that” Larra said, and Viorel felt her jaw fall and draw back into a smile at the same time.

“Larra Acer!” she laughed, throwing the little bundle she was holding onto at the other woman but it unfurled and fluttered to the ground uselessly. Viorel laughed harder at that, and Larra joined her.

After what must have been quite some time, the two finally stopped, having laughed away the stress from all the weeks on the road. Larra sank down to pick up Viorel’s bundle, tossing it back while shaking her head.

“Thank you, Larra. I should not have been so unkind earlier” she found her words step by step, “You are a good friend, and have a right to answers.”

Larra shook her head, then: “It was unkind, that’s right. But you never asked me why I live with Jack though we’re not wed, and so I won’t ask why you came North.”

“There is no shame in your choice. But thank you, once more.”

The young woman stared into her hands: “Mayhaps your judgement would be less kind if you knew the truth.”

Viorel sat down next to her, taking her into her arms.

“Should you want to tell someone, I will listen. We all have dark secrets in our past, and sometimes it is better to share them. When you’re ready.”

Larra wiped some tears from the corners of her eyes, looking up with a wet smile on her face.

With the sun sinking, and the odd sounds from the bog drowned out by those of merriment in the yard of Moat Cailin, Viorel finally managed to assemble all four members of her family around a cooking fire. Larra and Jack, their son already asleep in his father’s arms, joined them with their share of venison and potatoes.

Arya came over in the middle of their second helping, even larger in the light of the fires around them.

“Lord Brandon has arrived, finally” she rolled her eyes, “And he wants to meet his new arrivals.”

The four exchanged looks, unhappy to have to abandon their warm food and ale, but they had been summoned by a lord nonetheless. Taking Adolar into her arms to keep him from running away again, Viorel followed Arya with Bowen at her side, past some of the other families that were located on the second floor of the Gatehouse Tower, too.

The men greeted others they had met during their introductions and hours of daylight, and Viorel almost saw the lights of the Crossing. But there was only the flickers of flames. No torchbugs for the little ones to chase.

Booming laughter reached their ears as they stepped into the Children’s Tower that Lord Brandon had for himself.

When she had thought of House Stark, Viorel had always imagined tall people with more hair than necessary.

Lord Brandon was tall, for sure, but his long hair was well-kept and his beard properly trimmed. She had not been prepared for how handsome he was, his chest broad, arms strong and a face cut from hard rock.

His grey eyes were alight from the fire and the laughter he shared with another tall but lankier man.

They stopped as they saw Arya enter, sitting upright, and Viorel watched in amazement as the laughter was replaced by a stern expression on Lord Brandon’s face.

“Fenn” he greeted, “Those the newcomers, I take it?”

“Yes, Lord Brandon.”

His eyes wandered over them, nodding in acknowledgement.

“The families Stormare, and…uh…Stonacer.”

“From Widow’s Watch, I heard?”

“Aye” Jack said, his arms now firmly around Larra’s shoulders as he watched Lord Brandon take her in lazily, leaning back on his chair, his knees spread apart as men were wont to do.

“We’re carpenters, woodsmen” Bowen supplied into the tense silence, “And my wife, Viorel, she’s an excellent seamstress. Good with numbers, too.”

Lord Brandon laughed again: “You don’t need to sell yourself to me.”

His eyes now rested on Viorel like they had on Larra, and Viorel felt warm and uncomfortable at the same time, trying not to fidget. She met the lord’s gaze for a moment, saw the wickedness in them and returned to staring into the wall behind him.

“Who are the children?” the man beside Lord Brandon asked, smiling at Lorelei kindly.

“Our son, Adolar and our daughter Lorelei” Viorel supplied, meeting the Stark’s eyes again, still leaning back.

He licked his lips, and Viorel set her jaw.

A man in love, she scoffed in her head. A skirt chaser, more likely.

Then the man next to him began singing, and it rather shocked Viorel for she had not expected the man to have a good voice.

_“My ship has passed you by,_ _  
And though you promised me to show the way.  
You led me astray,  
You were my Lorelei  
What kind of fool was I”_

In Bowen’s arms, Lorelei turned her face to look at the strange Northener singing her name, and as the man continued a little smile settled on her face, reminding Viorel so much of Emmerich and Ostaera at the same time, it broke her heart.

Later that night, Viorel heard a girl’s voice humming in the chamber, the only word of the melody sung being a singular name. Mayhaps Lorelei would be alright in time, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please leave a Kudos or a comment.  
> If there's something bothering you about this Fanfic or chapter, also write that down in the comments. Your criticism keeps me going.
> 
> Now onto my own thoughts and questions for this particular chapter.
> 
> Viorel, Bowen and the two children have managed to travel across the Seven Kingdoms and reach a little town called Widow's Watch in the North.I thought about slowing down their travel, and joining them in this chapter as they make their way up the Kingsroad **and I hope you aren' too mad we did not get to see their traveling woes.**
> 
> The first big news of this chapter is the message that the princess Ostaera is pregnant, much like Viorel herself. **Reactions?** We'll get to what both Ostaera and Rhaegar think and feel about it, but I want to know your feelings about the situation, and what that might mean for the couplr/Realm.
> 
> Right afterwards, we receive another little gut-punch when we hear Adolar call Viorel "Mama", as well as learning that Lorelei has stopped talking. I'm currently working out the details of their character development over the course of this Fic and what needs to happen, especially since writing children is just...very hard. **What do you make of them thus far? Where do you think their story might take them?**
> 
> There are some news sprinkled in, too, about betrothals. We will get more input on that later, but for now Jaime is at Riverrun (as he was in cannon) and Cersei is at the Eyrie to meet Lord Elbert. Assuming, everything goes as planned: **What do you make of these matches?**
> 
> Viorel is, much like Margaery not a physical player, but a schemer. More versed in Westerosi customs than Shae, but with less actual pull than even Sansa had during her stay in KL. Even though the children dream about a black stag in the night, she lies to them. Even though she knows Widow's Wail is safer, she cannot stand the thought of not knowing the goings on. **Do you think it a smart decision to go to Moat Cailin? Can you understand where she's coming from?**
> 
> Lord Stark is rennovating heavily, much like Aerys down South. The importance of Moat Cailin has been repeated over and over in Canon, making you wonder what GRRM is going to do with the thing. Ostaera and Bowen join the people heading there for new opportunities. **What about their reasoning, about finding an actual community again? Should they, if possible try to stay there?**
> 
> Bowen and Viorel are not your typical couple, much like the entire Stormare-family isn't really a typical family. **Do you enjoy their dynamics? Are they wholesome enough? What do you think of them individually?**
> 
> We meet yet another character that is familiar to us. Holystone Jack, if you remember, was the first mate of the Windbreaker under Captain Harlan Pyke, this Fanfic's Dad of Davos Seaworth who died so this Fanfic could rise from his ashes. Something like that at least. He travels with a woman named Larra and their one year old son. They're not married, however. It gives us more of a commoner's perspective on things. **Do you enjoy that?**
> 
> In Moat Cailin we meet a whole host of characters, f.e. Arya Fenn ( **Opinions?** ) who tells us about Lord Brandon's thwarted love story. We meet said Lord Brandon later and oh boy, was that a scene to write. Ned talks about his older brother much like Jon talks about Robb, saying it was all meant for him etc. Brandon wanted to marry Lady Barbrey (possibly, who knows at this point) and he was either a skirt-chaser, or something else. There's a lot we don't know, so I went for a certain type of first impression: attractive. And he knows it very well. He gives Viorel a once over, as well as Larra, and behaves much like arrogant assholes do. **Are you curious what this Brandon will do? Do you, if not like him, at least enjoy what he brings to the table?**
> 
> As a last note, the little song-snippet is from a song called Lorelei by "the Scorpions" which has been stuck in my head for the last month. That, as well as the cover of "Celluloid Heroes" by Blackmore's Night (an entire band I'd add to the bardcore-adjacent genre). Listen to that for proper day-dreaming.
> 
> That is it from me for now, next up we return to King's Landing with Rhaegar, visiting the newly-wed, newly-pregnant Princess and Prince. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne


	21. Rhaegar V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> Regular updates, damn. I hope, this can sweeten your week further (I have been quietly relieved and in a celebratory mood since Saturday) alongside the news of a certain someone not being in power anymore, as well as about the vaccine ´. 
> 
> This chapter, it is something else. There are some odd emotions on here, complex themes (I hope) as well as research on architecture and pregnancy. No doubt Google now thinks I am (a) about to have a child and build a house or (b) somehow Frankenstein something out of that + magic? Honestly, combining my search history for this Fanfic with the one for my Bachelor Thesis must be kind of wild...
> 
> Anyway-   
> Without further ado,  
> Let's get right into today's chapter.

# Rhaegar V

He was leaning against the pillars in the Princess’s Pavilion as it had started being called ever since their wedding day, his favourite harp resting against the ground between his knees, as he let his fingers strum over the strings almost absent minded.

Just yesterday the Grand Maester had announced to the whole court that the Princess was with child, some two moon turns in. Ever since, Ostaera had retreated into their chambers, and he knew her to be sitting on an armchair, wrapped in blankets, staring into the empty hearth.

He did not know how to talk to her, only Lady Ashara and his mother got her to talk. At night, she had turned into him, her head resting on his chest and he had felt her tears.

There were no words for him to say, and instead he had wrapped his arms around her trembling form. She had been so strong on their wedding day, and he had been in awe with the way she had walked into the sept and up to him with her head held high.

He had been in awe at the way she had bowed her head to receive the crown that made her a princess.

The most he had admired her, however, had been the moment she had risen to face his father- talking her brother off the cliff he had walked towards to in his anger. She had been tall next to him, black and crimson in the light of day, her posture belying the tension she must have felt.

She had told off the King, and Rhaegar did not know what power had saved her life that day. But he was glad for it, and now even his father would not dare touch her. She was carrying the next Targaryen under her heart, a cost too precious to risk.

Rhaegar sighed, closing his eyes, and letting his mind wander. He had awakened today with the wish to compose another song, one for his wife and child but inspiration was escaping him. There was this certain pride in his heart, and the thought of becoming a father filled him with a kind of warmth he had not expected. Yet, at the same time it scared him.

Quite a lot, to be exact. But with his wife in need of someone to listen, it did not feel proper to keep his mother away from her so he could spill his thoughts on the matter to her. His feelings did not matter, for he had never had children nor lost them.

Would it be the right time to tell her the truth? That her children were alive, safe and far away?

Would it shatter her further?

He did not know, and it was not a decision he could make. He was no father. Would his mother want to know about her own children being alive, even if she could never reach them?

For a moment, Rhaegar dared imagining what this child of theirs might look like if they grew up.

A boy, or a girl?

Rhaegar thought of all the things his father had never done with him, and instead asked Ser Barristan and Ser Hightower to take over. Studies of the sword, shield and spear. Riding.

Even learning his letters from a significantly younger Pycelle had been _fun_. Then, the maester had been not exactly a young man but enthused in a way he did not seem to be anymore.

The only thing, Rhaegar was certain of was that he wished to be the one to teach his son the way of the world himself.

He saw a young boy, the same height as his precious brother Viserys, with the silver blonde hair of his family. Mayhaps curly like his grandmother’s had been? Mayhaps, he would be handsome like his mother, with a strong chin and expressive eyes.

Mayhaps even with the sapphire eyes of Ostaera, Rhaegar would not mind that at all. He had seen enough of purple amethysts to last a lifetime.

But if they were a girl, what then?

Rhaegar’s thoughts darkened. His father, the Realm, would blame her for not birthing an heir. But he himself, he would love a Princess just as much as a Prince.

He saw visions of a young girl in the rose pink of Tarth twirl in front of him, laughing as she ran from him, singing his songs with him. Picking flowers he could wear in his hair, making favours for him to carry into tourneys and battles.

Yes, a girl would not be a bad omen, and he would kill anyone who would make her feel lesser than she was.

“My Prince” a voice disrupted his dreams, and he sat up straight as he saw his wife standing above him, her hands resting on her stomach wrapped still in the blacks of Targaryen.

He scrambled to get up, setting the harp aside.

“My lady, what can I do?” he asked, wondering where his politeness had disappeared off to. Ostaera smiled, but he could see the red rims around her eyes.

In the last moon turns he had come to know every shade in them.

The blue of the sea when she had cried was by far his least favourite.

The colour of the sky when she laughed, truly, bent over a book while reading to Lady Ashara he liked the most.

There had also been the dark night-blue the night of their wedding, staring him down. Rhaegar caught his mind ere it wandered off into the memory and he embarrassed himself.

Ostaera nodded: “The Queen thought it prudent of us to go on a journey, out of the capitol.”

She took a breath, preparing herself for whatever words she was about to speak.

“Summerhall…they say it is your favourite place in all the world.”

“It is also a ruin, I would not wish to put you into a tent” he said, gesturing towards her stomach, “It would put you into much unnecessary danger, and it is uncomfortable, too.”

Ostaera laughed: “I am not made of glass, your grace, and an outbuilding of the palace has been finished.”

Rhaegar swallowed, lowering his head in something akin to shame. He needed to make an effort, he knew. His mother had made them the perfect escape, and his mother always laid out her plans with a unique precision.

Sometimes, Rhaegar wondered what she had set her sight on now.

Kinslaying was a crime and sin beyond even Queen Rhaella.

“We will leave as soon as you wish to” Rhaegar then said, daring to look up at her.

Ostaera did not seem glad or happy, or relieved. Instead she merely nodded, looking around for another topic.

It seemed so strange that two people who had shared the greatest intimacy could still not talk about the mundane. Rhaegar doubted, however, that kissing her would go over well right this moment.

“I thank you, your grace” she answered, lowering herself into a curtsy gracefully, and was almost turned fully away from him ere he made his move, a hand carefully grasping hers.

She turned, eyes widening astounded.

“May I ask something of you, my lady?” he said, gentler than his blunder before.

“You may” she was almost drawing her hand back already, but he stepped closer to her, resting their intertwined hands on his chest.

Her eyebrows drew together as she looked at their fingers against the crimson velvet of his doublet, as if it was a great insult or absurdity.

“I would ask that you not call me ‘your grace’ anymore. I am not my father. I am yours, however, and though there is no love in our union…I hoped you would not hate me when you were able to feel again. Would you tell me, truly and bluntly, in what regard you hold me?”

She met his gaze.

“I do not hate you, still” her smile was vicious, “But my regard of you is not determined by your performance in the marriage bed.”

He blushed, and she raised her free hand to his face.

“You asked for bluntness, your grace? Then bluntness you shall receive. I may not hate you but I loathe this place, and everyone in it with all I have left. You are not your father, that is true, but I have no reason to believe you to be any better.”

“And yet you…you seemed…I mean…”

She tilted her head: “Oh, you ask how I was able to lay with you, then?”

Rhaegar blushed further, not knowing how to talk to her about these topics. She had been in love with her knight, and he was not naïve enough to believe they had not shared their bed with certain enthusiasm.

He nodded, and heard her laughter again. Laughing about him, most certainly.

“Wine- wine and duty, your grace” she patted his cheek almost patronizingly, “You are not uncomely, and loathing...”

Her sentence trailed off, and Rhaegar almost sank into himself, then.

The way she had looked at him that night had not been passion, then. When she had bitten his neck, clawed her nails down his back, she had still not wanted him. Not even for his body.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

This time, it was the lady who kept them from parting.

“There is one lesson my lady in waiting has been saying to me almost every day since our wedding” and the vulnerable Ostaera had returned, her shoulder less squared, her eyes softer.

“I felt guilty. I enjoyed it, and I hated myself for it. It felt like a part of myself had betrayed Emmerich, as if I was already forgetting him, loosing him.”

He remembered how she had cried on the little balcony for the remainder of the night.

Ostaera did not continue, however, instead staring into the distance and he knew she was remembering something and he did not disturb her. He would not try taking this other man from her memory.

She breathed in and out deeply, her eyes closing for a moment, then she returned to him.

“Ashara, she understood, somehow. But she also told me about not denying my body, that I should allow myself to feel something from time to time” she coughed a hollow laugh, “It still feels like a betrayal.”

“I understand, and I hope you do not feel…pressured to laying with me. We can be as separated as you wish us to be.”

“For some moon turns, at least” she sighed, her hand pressing against her stomach, “Whoever is growing there, they deserve…happiness. They should not pay for their parents’ misery.”

“That we can agree on.”

It was comforting, in an odd way, that though they may never love each other they could still love the life they had created with all the fervor it deserved.

“I fear” Ostaera said, stepping closer and he took the sign and embraced her carefully, “I fear that I might resent them. I do not want to…but what if I do?”

“Then we’ll face that together. I will lean on you to show me everything, and you will lean on me until you have faced your feelings.”

“You’re a mystery to me, your grace” she shook her head, the curls around the crown brushing against his nose.

“My mother likes calling me sensitive, and once I resented her for that. It seems to be the only true aspect of my personality I can truly rely on.”

“That, and Faith.”

“Well, it’s not so much an aspect of my personality” he said, rolling his eyes but she did not care for is un-princely behaviour.

Once again, Rhaegar wondered about her life with her knight.

“Tell me” she asked, and now he truly startled. It must have shown on his face, for now she rolled her eyes.

“Your mother is quite sure in her opinion of you, and she is the only Targaryen whose word I trust. Prove me wrong, your grace.”

Stepping out of their embrace, still holding onto her hands, he pulled her further into the pavilion and led her to one of the cushioned benches.

Then he sat down on the ground before her, trying to find words once more. Words that would make him seem less like a madman and more like a man of faith.

“There is…the reason my parents were made to marry, and it was not for love” he took a breath, grasping his harp to keep his fingers moving along. It might help his mind to not lose its thread.

Ostaera did not say anything.

“My great-grandfather, King Aegon V, was quite against the idea of letting brothers and sisters wed, but after his heir Duncan chose love over the Iron Throne, Duncan’s siblings eloped. King Jaehaerys II and his sister-wife Queen Shaera did so secretly, yet King Aegon V could not force them apart as they had consummated the marriage. After my mother and father were born, I’m not sure exactly when it happened, a woods witch was brought to court by Jenny of Oldstones.”

He looked up at the still silent Ostaera, who was listening intently. Did she fear his next words as much as he did?

“The witch prophesied that a child would be born of a union twice sacred of blood with blood, amidst salt and smoke. It is connected, to some great evil, the Great Other, and be the herald of a war to end all wars. The fire of House Targaryen against the ice of…this Other.”

She did not laugh, still.

“You believe that this child is you?”

He nodded: “There was an account of that day in the library, and I sought it out after my mother had mentioned it. My uncle Aemon, he serves as a maester at the Wall, he wrote that he believes me to be this…boy.”

He would not call himself the _Prince that Was Promised_. Not to her face, not now.

“But do you believe it?”

He waited a beat, and knew she had gotten her answer already. Yet, he said it anyway. He needed to.

“Yes. It fits too well to be a coincidence. You already know of the bloodline, and you must know that I was born at Summerhall- as it burned down. There was even a red comet in the sky, much like it has been since our wedding.”

He gestured towards the sky where the bleeding star, a name Rhaegar favoured, was hiding next to the unrelenting sun.

“But do you believe that you will fight to save the world? Against a myth, a…a legend?”

“Yes! That is what the prophecy foretold. There is no doubt in my mind that I am to be the one, why should I not?”

“There has to be a great many people who fit that list, our own child, for one” as soon as she had spoken the words, he saw regret flash over her face.

“What do you mean?” he asked, glad she had not yet run away from him.

“Well- I do not believe in whatever this witch foretold over twenty years ago, most likely to earn some coin- but our child was conceived from the same blood-line as you. There was fire around us, those fire-dancers in the yard, the hearth and surely plenty of smoke. Apart from the fact that our entire marriage is a lie…”

Rhaegar felt like someone had pulled his life out from under him, but Ostaera continued on, uncaring of his distress. How should she know?

“And the tears, neither of us could deny- nor the comet. So, you see how arbitrary these ‘rules’ are if you truly think about it.”

“But…” he stuttered, “What?”

“What are you, if not the hero meant to save the world?” she asked, formulating his own thoughts even though he had not thought them yet, and Princess Ostaera rose from the bench tall and cold.

“You shall figure that out in time, you’re young yet. But do not dare think you can push our child into this prophecy either, my lord. I do not believe in it, and though I do not hold your beliefs against you, I cannot allow you to ruin another person’s live with these illusions of fate and destiny.”

She left, leaving him alone in the pavilion once again, his mind reeling.

He _was_ the Prince that was Promised. Uncle Aemon would not err, he was too learned, too wise. If Aemon believed in the Great Other, and the threat it posed, so would Rhaegar.

He would not hold her ignorance against Lady Ostaera either, Gods knew she had fought and lost enough. It was relieving, almost, to not have her believe in the prophecy. She would keep him from following in his father’s footsteps, save him – even if only for the sake of whatever children they might have.

The air around him was cold, colder than even the coldest nights in King’s Landing, and as his wings motioned through the air, it lifted him higher and higher than any man had ever dared.

Underneath him, Westeros shifted, darkened, suddenly encased in blackened stone. Red flashes of light lit up the world underneath, great ruins rising up to meet him, getting struck by lightning that soared between him and his wings. It must be Harrenhall, for there was no other ruin this large that he knew.

Then, one last bolt rushed in front of his eyes, and as he blinked next, he was now on the ground, sprawled out in an endless white void. The sky was white above, only shades of something blue or grey moving past. Clouds. The ground was white, his eyes seemingly sunken into the cold, wet material, his wings not moving. He caught a glimpse of something red, of eyes with blood like tears staring down at him, ere he was ripped from that place.

There was darkness around him again, but it was a warm darkness, enveloping him, wet here, too but earthy. He could move his wings again, now, but only a bit, flutter them until they hit walls of some kind. Then, abruptly, his world was turned upside down, as if he was tumbling down into the centre of some large maw. He screamed, thrashing with claws and wings at the smooth walls that encased him entirely.

Rhaegar sat up, abruptly, his eyes sprinting from lurking shadow to shadowy figure, his mind racing.

Darkness. Lightning. Cold.

His breath was loud in the darkness, and he could hear his heart beating in his chest, fingers seeking to find purchase in the soft material underneath.

“What are you doing?” a voice interrupted, sleepily and yet annoyed.

It took him a moment, until he realized that the soft material had been his blanket, pulling it away from where Ostaera was sleeping next to him.

She sat up now too, looking concerned in a way his mother often was.

“Is everything alright, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He saw the ruins of Harrenhall again, its large towers toppled over and spread in the vast blackness.

Soaring above it with large wings.

“Only a dream. Nothing….much.”

He furrowed his brow, trying to shake to memory of being trapped in something too small for him, buried alive in the warm earth. Calling out for anyone who might hear him. _Sister_.

Rhaegar shook his head, to rid himself of that dream, but it did not want to leave. Arms enveloped him, as he slipped in and out of this last memory so often.

Ostaera was humming again, and he tried focusing on that melody he had never heard, tried following it with his head. Learning it. Treasuring it.

_Sister!_

He did not have a sister, all his sisters were dead. Buried.

Had their ghosts come to haunt him? But why him? Because he lived the life they could never have?

His arms scratched against the tight walls, jostled up and down, sideways.

But then, there was Ostaera’s voice again. Words now, too, and Rhaegar tried capturing each one of them in his heart. His head was somewhere else, still in the darkness, but his heart might listen still.

_Blue Sapphire, The tide is turning._

_I’ll be right with you, to stop your hurting._

She had a beautiful voice, gentle with so much emotion it scared him. Almost. Most of all, his heart yearned for it. Skipping beats to catch her in its expanses.

How did she keep all of it locked away so tightly?

The darker voice in his head pulled him underneath again, screeching, claws scratching into the walls so much it hurt his bones.

Ostaera wrapped him tighter into her arms, pulling him back as though his body was not as taught as a bowstring. Still singing softly, his head now in the crook of her neck, hands in the fabric of her nightgown.

_You will never be alone. Just come home._

The words echoed around his words, intermingling with whatever else was there tonight.

_Blue Sapphire. You’re on your own now,_

_And I can’t be there to show you how._

_To be safe, be bright._

_Make me proud_

Her voice cracked, and Rhaegar found strength in that, calming his breathing along hers.

Slowly, he turned to the side, pulling through the way his arms and shoulders were hurting, from the anger that fulfilled his every vein. As if something inside of him was angry at being contained, indignant. Furious.

She turned her face into his chest, limbs a tangled mess, but it was real. She was real, not like whatever was burning through his head.

She was the sea, calm and blue.

Carrying their child, and tentatively, Rhaegar reached his hand down, drawing along Ostaera’s sides until they reached the little swell. It had stood out to him this morning, more so since Ostaera was quite thin. He hoped to all the Gods that she would eat well now, at Summerhall and far from his father.

He places his hand on whoever was sleeping there, eyes closing and tears subsiding slowly.

“Can you” his voice was hoarse, as he drew slow circles on her skin, “Can you tell me about them?”

He could not clarify, could not name them, but something in his heart continued to yearn. She had held so much love in her voice, so much tenderness unlike he had ever witnessed, and he craved for more.

“It’s…it might not be wise” she said, pulling back to look at his face in the darkness, “To bring them into the open.”

“Would it hurt you?” he asked, not wishing to hurt her for his own personal gain.

“It hurts regardless.”

She sucked in air, eyes closing for a moment.

“His name was…Em…” tears were in her eyes again, and he leaned his forehead closer to hers.

“Don’t, not if it pains you like this.”

“Emmerich” she then said, as if it was a great spell, a prayer.

“Emmerich” he repeated, as she gathered more of her strength.

“Ser Emmerich Hasty” there was the smallest of smiles, teary but bright, “We met at a Tourney, and he left with the promise of becoming a knight. To prove himself worthy of me. He did, he held word. The most honourable man…”

A pause, her playing with the strings that held his own shirt closed.

“He loved…flowers, and the yellow ones he favoured though he always denied it. He always got up first in the morning, no matter how late he went to bed. His singing voice was terrible.”

Another silence.

“We kissed first after he lost during the joust at the tourney. In a barn, no less.”

There were still no words on his mind to say, but it was calmed now. He tried to keep each new little detail Ostaera revealed to him tucked into his mind. 

When she did not say anything for some time, but her eyes still staring at him, Rhaegar linked their hands together between them, his other still resting against their child in her belly.

“I dreamed” he then began, finding the right words one after the other, “of flying. Dark ruins, then somewhere with white and then…it felt like I was being closed into a black cell. Too small. Something kept yelling sister _.”_

Outside, the sun was already high, and Ostaera had not yet answered.

“You must think me a dreamer, with a head filled with air” he admitted.

“Not air” she said, sitting up to look at him with her eyes drawn closer together, “Merely a darkness, torment almost. It seems to me, you suffer under your father more than I had thought.”

Her eyes moved beyond, then, fast and thinking.

“I wonder why your mother sent us here,” she got up fully, walking towards her clothes but still musing aloud, “There must have been a reason, and she is quite clearly not letting us in on it. _Something_ is going on, and she is keeping us away from it all.”

As Ostaera let her nightgown drop, forever unashamed of her nakedness and Rhaegar quickly averted his eyes lest he stare, she continued: “There are only two reasons I can think of that would make her weary enough- one being the fear of an attack on the keep, targeting whatever Targaryen might reside. Or two” she raised a second finger, turning around while she drew her undergarments over herself, “Something is going to upset Aerys so badly, she fears for the life of everyone caught in his wrath.”

“You think it to be the latter?” he asked, now moving up to help her tie her stays closed. He then pondered it for a moment.

“I agree with you” Rhaegar said, brushing some of her hair aside, righting the shift, “If she had insight on an attack, she would have kept us close, and strengthened the guard. There are a great many passages in the Red Keep that would move us out of reach of anyone not familiar with it. My father, on the other hand- he gets easily upset. It could have something to do with Lord Lannister, the way he has positioned his son and daughter at the other coast? Suspicious. Lord Stark is sending men to repair Moat Cailin, that is…unusual, too. The Baratheon heir is now great friends with Lord Stark’s son...”

“And they were all at our wonderful wedding.”

“Yes. We would need eyes out there, amongst them, to truly know what is going on” he stepped back to get his own tunic and doublet ready, “Allies. If they want to move against the crown…”

She halted in her motions to take the gown: “You know, I would welcome it if they did? That I would not care if I died, only to see this dynasty fall?”

He swallowed, looking at the black and red garments in each of their hands.

“I do not begrudge you this outlook. And if it came to it, I would openly pronounce our marriage for what it is, so that no sons of Tarth might die for my father.”

She nodded then, taking in air but then looked down at the crown on its pillow.

“I have no choice, however. Running is a dream I cannot pursue” Ostaera said, and though they both knew it to be true, it hurt him nonetheless.

“I carry your child, whether it be an heir or a daughter. I cannot bear the thought of abandoning them just because you are their father. No, if the lords choose war I would not abandon them- they would be hunted all their life. There is nothing I would not stand against, no blade I would not face, to keep them safe.”

“We will face them together, then” Rhaegar stepped closer, “As we will do all things. If we play our cards right, however, there might not be open war on the horizon. The lords must hate my father, but they might not yet hate me. It depends on whatever testament to my character has been given by those that know me.”

“Lord Baratheon” she murmured, “It all depends on him and what he chooses to do now. Has he told his dear friends what he has done? Will he stand back, or fight?”

“Let us ask him that very question” Rhaegar determined, and he saw that same little spark of something in her eyes that he had just felt.

“There is only one choice he can make that would not make me want to tear down his castle around him.”

“As is your right.”

She shook her head: “We need more than that, more pieces on this cyvasse board.”

“Apart from Baratheon, there is another family that shall need our attention. The Lannisters will most likely decide the outcome of this war, and I am not fool enough to believe that Tywin would stand by my side.”

“He might not” Ostaera agreed, walking over to the little map table that had been placed for them, “but he has a son and daughter yet. If we create a connection to them, gain their trust- be the prince and princess the Realm desperately wants to see- we hold the keys to the West in our hands. And with it the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands. It is a most powerful alliance, only Dorne and the Reach not encased in it."

“Would you truly trust them to change their fathers’ mind?”

“No, I do not” her eyes were cool, “But if we can remove your father from power without risking war, it is worth a try. Let them admire us, look up to us, and thus make them not remove our heads when your father’s time has come.”

“Then, I shall write to young Jaime, he is a squire for Lord Sumner Crakehall, if I recall correctly. It might do much to endear him to us, if he was to learn from the Sword of the Morning himself.”

“Lady Cersei might prove more difficult” Ostaera said, “She was said to marry you, after all, and every young girl dreams of becoming a princess. I do not know her enough, and I would rather not make her a lady in waiting.”

“My mother always mentions House Tyrell, she might have an opinion on whom you could choose out of their ladies.”

“It still leaves us with a Lannister unattended, which is quite a terrible bet to make. Has the betrothal between her and Lord Elbert been made official?”

“As official as they can be at this point in time, it is to be rather lengthy engagement.”

“Then mayhaps a letter to the Eyrie is in order, since that seems to be where the young have gathered. Do you like Lord Arryn?”

Rhaegar shrugged: “We have never had a great many interactions, but he can be rather jovial.”

“Then you shall write to Lord Jaime, as well as Lord Elbert. I will make use of whatever wits I have in me, to gather some ladies-in-waiting. Mayhaps one or two of the Tully sisters would be inclined.”

They went back and forth on each of the Lords Paramount for what felt like hours, though no one had yet to call them to break their fast. As they left their tent, Arthur and Barristand faithfully standing guard, they were greeted with grim faces but a look of understanding painted into their knights’ eyes nevertheless.

One did not plan for a king’s death and to preserve one’s own life every day, and as they sat down in the morning sun Rhaegar happily noticed that Ostaera was eating more than she had the day before.

Summerhall might prove to be his father’s best idea.

The building had gone on for quite some time, having been started the day his father had decided who the next princess was going to be.

A great many steel arches had been forged, and as Rhaegar watched, even now the roof was being build. Apparently, glass was meant to fill the panels and domes, and he hoped someone had thought to not make it all black and red.

The very top of the centre dome was to be some 150 feet high, the entire palace spanning some 800 feet, running along a North-South axis.

Five floors were raised inside, the one under the glass ceiling twice as high as the others, with 790 rooms planned, including a centre Throne Room as well as an equally enormous ballroom.

It was insane in a different manner to all the insanity Rhaegar had witnessed before.

Ostaera was looking in the direction of the ever-growing building, too, where men were crawling around fearlessly despite the incredible height. As Rhaegar turned his head to watch a couple of stonemasons debate over some slabs of patterned black rock, waving enthusiastically until they were interrupted by a young boy, who was coming out of some cellar-type area.

The men talked, then send the boy scurrying again, and Rhaegar’s entire back tensed when he came running for their table.

Had something terrible happened, yet again?

Ostaera was already preparing a goblet of water, and moving to greet the boy.

“M’sorry, lord” he panted, almost keeling over then and there, if not for Ostaera who moved to grasp his arms quickly, offering the goblet.

“Drink, and breathe” she asked, wiping her handkerchief across his forehead. The boy, already red in the face from his two hundred yard run, got even redder and it was rather endearing.

“There…we found some things in one of the new caverns, and they be bringing it out now. Said to ask for you” he stumbled over his words, and Ostaera turned back to look at him.

It was not to be true, it could simply not be true.

There, resting on the dirtied white linen shirt, rested another large egg, its ridges filled with damp, brown earth.

Rhaegar knelt to pick it up, and almost dropped it back down, as warmth crept into his skin. From the egg.

With his mantle, his hands shaking, he wiped across the surface, some threads catching. Underneath the layer of mud, where the handprints of workers covered it, slowly the true colour came to shine.

Audible gasps from the men around him could be heard, and even Arthur cursed silently.

Ostaera did not say anything, however, as Rhaegar held the still warm egg in his hands, now its splendid cobalt blue revealed to their eyes. There was a single whorl of silvery white wrapped around it, but veins of cream and copper lay like a finely woven hairnet all across the egg.

He placed it in his wife’s hands, closing his fingers around her, and he watched as the same realization struck her too, and her own blue eyes went up to meet his own.

The world was changing, that much he knew. They had uncovered two eggs, now, and whatever lay in store for them, it seemed they would find dragons at their side.

As he watched Ostaera follow one of the lines with her thumb, his head was echoing again, calmer but louder at the same time.

_Sister._

Desperate, but hopeful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a Kudos or comment. Don't be intimidated by the long comments underneath, some simple words/emojis are as welcome as a 500 word essay. 
> 
> If there's something you don't like about this Fanfic, also write that down in the comments. 
> 
> Now, onto some of my own thoughts/ questions:
> 
> Rhaegar ponders his new wife/ mother of his child (sorry to all of you who thought that to be a strategical lie), and is quite confused on the matter. He admires her, especially her strength, and even though it is not outright love, it is not a cold demeanour either. In a lot of Fanfics I've read over the years, the "Enemies to Lovers" aspect of a arranged marriage is in the foreground, here however I wanted to go another route. **What do you make of Rhaegar's feelings towards Ostaera? Do you think he truly likes her or does he still pity her?**
> 
> Another important inner monlogue we have with Rhaegar are his thoughts/feelings towards his child. He's scared, but proud somehow. He ponders whether or not to tell Ostaera about her other children. **What do you think?** Then, he thinks about who that child might be, about what he would do better than his father and how he would love a daughter. **Do you believe this Rhaegar could be a good father?**
> 
> Ostaera enters the scene to inform Rhaegar that they're to leave to Summerhall by order of Rhaella. What follows is a very interesting conversation about what Ostaera feels. She slept with Rhaegar (evidently) and was not an unwilling participant in their wedding night- she very much consentend and even initiated these acts. **What do you think about that aspect?** Ostaera talks about wine, duty and loathing. She's also someone who is in tune with her own body, but she still feels guilty. She's no perfect angel, but further development will be discussed in her own chapters. Her sexuality is not meant to become character development for another person.
> 
> After that conversation and reached agreement, the couple also face down another demon so to speak: Rhaegar's obsession. Unsurprisingly, Ostaera doesn't really like the thought of prophecy etc. That conversation was meant to show how even though they have found some common ground, there still fundamentally different people. **Where do you see their relationship going?**
> 
> Then, we get our very first dragon dream. One has been mentioned in Taj III with Phaeron in Valyria, but now we experience one and it is something. First, we're somewhere with red lightning, and great ruins (Rhaegar assumes Harrenhall), gliding high above the ground. Secondly, he's "sprawled out in an endless white void...of eyes with blood like tears" and thirdly "warm darkness, as if he was tumbling down". **What do you think these clues mean?**
> 
> Ostaera starts singing a lullaby (originally writtwn for the character Jester on Critical Role, by @schnetzle_ . Check that out!), to calm him down in his fits of dreams. After some verses, Ostaera breaks a bit, too, and Rhaegar finally pulls out of his vision and asks about her family. She tells him of Emmerich, and they share a tender moment in this little outbuilding/tent. **How do you feel about this scene? Rhaegar now learns about those she loved, do you like that?**
> 
> In the light of the morning, the two now start their plotting, to move against some people who might wish to start a rebellion. **Do you think open war can be averted at all?** As Ostaera says: It all depends on Lord Baratheon and whether he'll protect Ostaera or giver her up in favour of destroying the Targaryens. Our little Sapphire Princess then thinks about pulling Jaime and Cersei to her side, however they decide against bringing Cersei into the fold. Letters to Elbert are also sent off, as well as Lysa. **Who do you want to see as a Lady in Waiting to Ostaera, in addition to Ashara of course?**
> 
> Now, onto the last little puzzle piece for this chapter. Firstly: I imagine Summerhall to look like the Grand Palais in Paris. Secondly: Antother dragon egg is now in the posession of the KL Targaryens: cobalt blue with a silvery-white whorl and cream and copper veins. And Rhaegar hears again: Sister. **What do you think? Are they now mayhaps a bit overpowered?**
> 
> I have some more surprising things planned for the dragons in the future, but we'll get to that in time. Next up we meet Elia in the Citadel, which will be fun.   
> Since my deadline is drawing near for my thesis, updates might turn slower again (sorry about that), but once December is there * claps resolutely *. 
> 
> With that, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne


	22. Elia IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A race indeed, between the self-destruction of House Targaryen over fabled dragon eggs, and the greed of Lord Lannister. The lines have been drawn, and no one will want to be on the wrong side of history but even I must admit, that the dynasty has reshuffled the cards._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> Before we begin, I would like to state that I rewrote this entire chapter roughly four times (2021 Roxanne here: it's now five). There were certain things I wanted to happen, but I could not add them into the plot organically, and so I changed it around.  
> And even now, I am not really happy with what I ended up with, but at the same time, I want to move forward. So it could happen, that some time in the next weeks, I might change it again but I will inform you. (2021-Aye: it happened!)  
> Maybe some of you also would like to chip in with some points on what to improve, since I don't know where my problem is with this one.
> 
> A/N: !!! EDITED AS OF 14.01.2021 !!!
> 
> Without further ado, however, let's get right into today's chapter.

# Elia IV

Elia watched with fascination as the maester lifted the frog’s heart out of its dead, cut-open body, still beating on, not knowing that its owner was long dead by now.

It should, by all accounts, be dead itself. But it was not.

“We have not yet understood the mechanism of why a heart my beat without the soul” the maester explained, lowering the now slowing heart down into the frog, “But we understand it to be a muscle like the ones we use to move our hands.”

Elia watched the last moments of movement in the heart, and felt almost melancholy as she noticed that the heart had stopped beating, too.

Once, a fully functioning living creature. Now nothing.

Death was such an odd concept.

If it were not the middle of a lecture on the anatomy of hearts, Elia might have started pondering the meaning of life. She missed these conversations with Oberyn and Doran, held mostly after their parents had gone to bed, outside in the grass of the gardens with some wine in their hands.

Merely talking about gods, and death and life and all that they knew to be in-between.

It was comforting to know that the body itself was almost magical, though Elia did not know why she found that to be comforting.

Was all magic in the end merely an aspect of nature mankind had yet to understand?

Could every aspect of nature even be understood in such a manner?

Whenever Elia looked at the mathematicians roaming the study halls, with their long equations of something or other, she did seriously doubt that they could understand it. Almost as if they did not have the right tools to do so- not yet, at least.

Her drawing of a human’s heart was not her prettiest work yet, she knew, and thus Elia spend the rest of the lecture doodling more lines into it while listening to Archmaester Ebrose as he talked about detecting a heartbeat in a person and determining whether it was the right interval and such.

Elia wrote that down, too, listening to her own heart for a moment but then found herself stopping since being aware of her own heartbeat was an odd sensation.

After another hour, the class came to a close and Elia packed her notes slowly even though they were going to end up in an indiscernible heap in the box at the foot of her bed anyway. She at least wanted to try to become more orderly, ever since Archmaester Theobald had told her that she was a smart acolyte with a bright future but a scattered mind.

 _Scattered mind_. Elia huffed, placing her pen in one of the pockets, _I will show you a scattered mind_.

Dinner would start in an hour, and thus Elia decided to go for a last walk in the ever dimming sunlight of the day, enjoying it before yet another long night filled with studying notes and recalling unnecessary details the Archmaesters had mentioned.

A couple of Archmaesters were congregating in the centre courtyard where most novices and acolytes passed through now that lessons had officially ended for the day, and it was not unheard of that the Archmaesters met up to discuss something or other.

Most of the older acolytes tried hanging back to catch a word or two of what was said, but Elia had soon learned that to be futile. Whatever the others had heard, it could most likely not be further from the truth.

Elia suspected, the older men were discussing some official business about money and such- nothing that could truly interest their students, and they knew full well the air of mystery that surrounded them and had thus decided to meet every day in the centre courtyard to taunt them.

It was a glorious idea, if true.

On some days, one could come across a heated open debate on a certain topic and Elia loved those days most of all. Watching the two most learned of a given subject go at it was marvellous, ideas thrown around and arguments dismissed and called upon within a single breath. References were made and she had found herself taking notes of these references more than once.

She had yet to understand a single book she had looked up from these debates, but it was worth a try.

Tonight, Ebrose, Walgrave und Norren were standing in a tight circle, gesticulating with fervour at something or other.

Ravens passed overhead, no doubt about to bring more messages from all over the world to this most sacred haven of knowledge.

A couple of quite odd rumours had gone around the Citadel in the last few weeks. Not only was the new princess apparently with child already, which most saw as good portent for the new year and praised their king however unworthy he might be, but another dragon egg had been uncovered in Summerhall.

If Elia believed in destiny, she might have called it such that all of these things had happened since the betrothal of Rhaegar had been made public.

She liked to call it what it was: politics. The game of thrones continued to be played day-in and day-out.

Sometimes, she almost missed it- missed being able to play her cards, and move against whatever enemies she might have. Then she recalled how truly awful it had been, to bargain with one’s own life to gain the upper hand. To never know when a plan might backfire and not only destroy yourself but all those you held dear as well.

Why should her loving a man most deemed beneath her station be a sensation when it was merely a fact of life?

That was an aspect of the Citadel Elia had come to respect: even though they held oaths and believed in a set of rules, the actual acolytes did not really bother to care that much. She could have snuck in a lover or two and apart from reminding her of the nightly patrols, no one would have batted an eye.

There was still intrigue, of course, but it was mostly about academia- nothing personal was brought up in debates. At least, most of the time.

Elia had started to incorporate that into her vernacular- not only certain words that sounded better when spoken with a certain pathos, but also to not attack a person but rather what they put forward. To not distract with other factoids about her opponent but rather stay on topic and take their argument down piece by piece.

Thus, she had never gotten that far, but in her mind she collected good retorts and phrases.

As Elia crossed the courtyard, trying not to collide with another acolyte whose nose was firmly stuck in his collection of scrolls, another Archmaester joined the group in the centre and it did catch her off-guard slightly.

He took off his mask, the ceremonial rod twirling between his fingers, and the famous pattern of Valyrian steel caught her eye. She halted in her steps as Archmaester Marwyn greeted the other three, his brows drawn together in clear concern.

Words were exchanged, and she could see shock settle on Embrose’s features and disbelief on Norren’s.

Out from the door where Marwyn had just stepped, an acolyte made his way, ducking his head and sticking close to the walls.

Trying very hard not to get seen, but Elia was unsure whether there was a single person on this courtyard who had not noticed him.

Something had happened. Something serious enough that it worried the Archmaesters.

Slowly, Elia set into motion herself, and though she wanted very much to make her way across the court to enter the Isle of Ravens she did not. Instead she made her way to her chambers to indeed store her notes and collect her thoughts.

Marwyn was famous in the Citadel for his believe and interest in magic, and he taught all those interested in this almost forbidden knowledge. It was rather frowned upon, and most acolytes did not dare approach the subject.

Magic. Dragons.

It was probable these things might be connected, but then why would Marwyn be worried about anything?

He might teach about it, but magic was gone from this world much like dragons had been.

Unless, of course, there was another game being played. The Citadel was powerful, although most never spoke of it. Hoarding knowledge, and the only place were information on certain subjects might be found.

Surely, Marwyn would be interested in dragons. Had the royal family contacted him and asked about what he knew?

Elia assumed that to be the first step when confronted with such an opportunity. And Targaryens were nothing if not superstitious, and they must have seen the signs of whatever was fast approaching just as she had.

On her way back down, she did not pass a single person and as she reached the Great Hall she knew why, too. Surrounding a group of two acolytes, an entire gaggle of almost two hundred students had gathered, word spreading fast around.

Elia joined, squeezing between two she barely knew herself.

“What is going on?” she whispered, standing on her tip-toes to catch a glance at the people in the centre. One of them was an elderly man with a few links on his chain, the other a much younger man. Both of them were talking animatedly.

“It’s the glass candles” the one to her right answered in excitement, “They say, they…well they’ve started burning. At least a week ago, but Marwyn kept it a secret until today.”

An odd decision to make.

“What else? This cannot be all?”

“Oh very much not” the one to her left said, tone haughty, “A missive arrived from Volantis of all places. A strange thing has happened in Old Valyria but we are waiting on more reports to confirm.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Dark clouds gathering over the ruined land-mass, and some say the fourteen flames have erupted again.”

“A second doom?”

“Aye.”

“Fuck.”

“Aye.”

In the next half-hour no new information could be gleaned from the visibly shaken men, and the acolytes dispersed once more.

Whatever happened in Valyria, _something_ must have happened. Something that had shaken the Archmaesters, and most likely the king too.

That could very well move some of the pieces around on the board, and Elia found herself drawing a map of Westeros into her dinner, a couple of peas to signify the largest keeps and a piece of carrot moving around as she remembered the alliances made in the last few weeks. Or at least planned alliances.

At the moment, she knew, it looked suspiciously like a certain Lord Paramount was out to make himself King, toppling the man that had once been his closest friend in the process. Most of the Seven Kingdoms was on Tywin’s side already, betrothals solidifying the entire alliance.

No one would stand between them, no one could defeat six Lords Paramount, and Elia did not doubt that every single one would flock together to defeat Aerys.

Then, what about the woman in the middle of it?

Would Princess Ostaera be killed just to be sure? If it was Tywin’s decision to make, then she was as good as dead already, but mayhaps the other lords could make him have mercy this once.

But now, a new parameter had entered. The glass candles were said to signify the return of magic into this world.

That could easily splinter a few of the alliances, depending on what “magic returning” actually meant.

Elia ate King’s Landing first, quickly followed by the magic carrot, and considered a few options to distract her mind from the inevitable hours of studying ahead.

When another week had passed without major incidence, and no further signs of sudden magic happening, Elia tried not to be too disappointed. Mayhaps it had been a once-off event, but when she asked one of the two men who were currently studying with Marwyn, maester Luwin, she learned that the candles were still lit as brightly as ever.

Apparently, there were four of them: one green and three black ones, but Elia was unsure as to the significance of the colour.

In alchemy, colour was very important, but since alchemy was at least a little bit less magical than magic, she tried not to think into it too much. Sometimes, colour was just colour.

New rumours came and went. Something about new skirmishes at the Wall up North, apparently a group called Wildlings was trying to get over the Wall, and further reports form Volantis about red lightning in dark clouds.

The most interesting news, however, was about fire in the sky. It had been stated by different people and with different descriptions, but all of them were sure of one thing: their contacts in Volantis and the surrounding bay had seen fire streak across the sky. Actual fire.

The Archmaesters had even begun vehemently denying that such reports existed, but every time they denied it, someone confirmed it from yet another letter stolen from the rookery.

It would be funny if it was not such an odd choice. Why deny it at all?

Elia shook her hand out, back inside her favourite alcove in the alchemy section of the library, and considered her notes on the liver carefully. Not her favourite subject Embrose had ever broached, but alas.

Outside, she could see the sun rise, tinting the sky a vibrant red and gold and for a moment, Elia let herself enjoy the sight. The candle went out next to her, a cloud of white and grey smoke twirling into the air and then dissipating in the draft from underneath the curtain.

She cracked her neck, trying to loosen the pain in her shoulders, but knew it to be no avail. Breakfast would be served in two hours, roughly, and Elia deliberated for a moment as to what to do with her time.

Going to bed now would ruin her entire day, and she would rather not let that happen. Rolling up her notes in an almost orderly fashion, Elia stood up, stretching her back and hearing more bones crack loudly in the silence of the library around her.

She should consider taking more breaks, all this sitting could not be good for her body.

Rolling her shoulders, Elia pushed the curtain open and almost shivered in the dark cold of the large library hall. Beneath, she could make out another candle being just lit, and she did not envy the acolyte who was sitting in front of an enormous pile of notes.

She passed three novices and ten acolytes on her way out of the hall, most not as awake as she felt, and some of them half greeting her with mumbles.

Turning through one of the archways and wandering alongside the colonnade in an eastward direction, the quiet was different from the one inside. Less oppressive, less smothering.

Taking a moment, Elia focused on her breathing like her mother had taught her when she was younger. Five counts in, hold for three, five counts out.

Feeling her head waken from the cool, damp morning air, Elia calmed once more, face turned towards the rising sun once again.

If there were more clouds, she pondered, one might easily mistake the incandescent shimmer of the sun for actual fire.

Was that merely all the reports had seen?

But then again, it would be quite impossible to mistake the sun one saw every day for something else. At least, Elia hoped that to be the case.

Overhead, a small flock of ravens fluttered in an orderly formation. Too intelligent for their own good, her own mother oftentimes said whenever she tended to one of them in the golden cage of her solar. Elia always wondered whether being too intelligent was a fault or a virtue, and even after several moon turns of being around some of the brightest men of this century she had yet to find an answer.

Making her way along the alcoves, with their cyvasse tables and nooks for studying, Elia watched in fascination as, quite suddenly, one of the ravens plummeted several feet through the air, only slowed by his outstretched wings. The murder followed, cawing louder than before, ere what she assumed to be the fallen raven ascended and turned away from the tower.

They circled once over the yard, ere the leader dove into a harrowing nose-dive.

Straight towards her.

The ten or so black feathered beasts shot through the arcade windows, and Elia ducked down at the very last breath, arms closing around her head, as the murder cawed, fluttered and hopped its way to the ground before her.

The first immediately turned to face her, and even through the semi-darkness in the shadows surrounding them (or mayhaps because of the very same reasons) Elia saw piercing white eyes stare at her.

The raven made its way towards her, then stopped, its head turning sideways inquisitively. Then one more hop and measured stride later, the raven stood in front of her, staring up.

It did not carry a letter, and neither did the others.

Was it blind? What was going on?

Slowly, Elia stood up, not looking away once from the blind raven while the others loitered around her feet. The blind one cawed.

“Spear!” it exclaimed, picking at her boots before hopping backwards. Elia tried stepping over it, but it was faster, springing into the air and circling around her for but a moment, before sitting in the window they had just come through.

Elia shook her head in confusion, eyes widening as the raven’s head jerked backwards towards the tower it had almost crashed into. For what other raven would do so, if not the blind one.

It glided down from its perch into the courtyard, once more calling out “Spear!” as it did so. The rest of the murder did not follow, still making the barest of noises from behind her as if in conversation. She was going mad, there was no other word for it- completely insane.

Carefully stuffing her notes into her satchel and pulling up a hood over her ever growing hair, Elia climbed through one of the arched empty windows and into the courtyard, following the blind raven as it puffed its feathers, calling for her ever so often. It even turned around halfway across the courtyard as if to see whether she was still there.

The door at the base of the tower was locked, but as the blind raven set off into the air, only to come to rest on her shoulder, Elia was shaken from her stupor and knelt.

As if in a trance, she took out the set of lockpicks she had picked up during one of her excursions into the city. Within moments, the rusty and uncomplicated lock sprung open underneath her fingers and she slunk inside, stuffing the little piece of leather inside of her carefully wrapped bindings.

No torches or sconces were lit, as she worked he way up the winding stairs as silently as possible, thanking the Gods above for the leather boots she had chosen the day before. A voice started reaching her ears as she came ever closer to the top, it seemed, but another heavy oak door crossed her path, the light from candles peaking out from under the door.

The raven was completely quiet, almost in anticipation.

Slightly perturbed, Elia knelt down and pressed first her eye and then her ear to the lock.

She had been quite wrong, it seemed. It was not merely one voice in that room, but rather several.

With one hand resting against the wood, Elia counted them with the other and noting every person she knew.

“It simply cannot be” one of them said in heat, but Elia did not know this man, “Dragons? Glass candles? Impossible.”

“Do you think me a fool?” that was most certainly Archmaester Marwyn, “That I not know the intricacies of the subject I have studied these past decades?”

“If you must ask, then it seems you have your answer already” the unknown voice answered, “The Citadel cannot have failed.”

_What?_

Elia’s heart skipped a beat, or rather three, stumbling over its carefully created rhythm as her breath stuttered.

“But it has!” Marwyn exclaimed in aggravation, or rather even frustration, “What else can these Valyrian reports portend other than the return of a dragon?”

_WHAT?_

A fist slammed into a table, as the unknown voice interrupted the Archmaester’s words: “The dragons are gone, never to return.”

“The glass candles do not lie, Perestan, and neither do the ravens. Something is afoot in Westeros, something far beyond our knowledge. Older, greater, I dare say.”

Perestan? The Archmaester of history?

Then, a third voice interrupted the squabble. One she did know all too well. Ebrose.

“Now, now. However interesting this might be, it is not why we have gathered tonight” she had never heard such condescension in his tone, and it sent a shiver down her spine for a reason she did not dare name, “We must deal with these _alchemists_ the king has let into his city, into his trust even.”

“Is it not clear what he plans to do?” Perestan spoke up once more, “He plans to awaken those damned eggs they have found.”

“But what about the others?” yet another voice asked, “Would he not wait until every single Targaryen egg has been accounted for?”

“Aerys is a fool” Perestan scoffed, his chain clinking loudly, “As was his father and grandfather. He will destroy the entirety of the Red Keep if the Gods are good. Though I doubt the sandstone will burn as brightly as Summerhall.”

“It would sunder the kingdoms apart” Ebrose spoke, clearly perturbed but most likely not for the same reasons as Elia, “Dorne is already on the verge of declaring independence, after the rather lacklustre answer to the death of their Princess from the king. And only the Gods may know what Tywin is planning.”

“I doubt Lord Lannister will allow independence” Perestan said, “Once he has seated himself, or even his son, on the Iron Throne, he will do everything in his power to tighten his grasp around Dorne’s throat.”

“So it is a race?” the voice of Theobald mingled with those of the others. Just how many Archmaester were in attendance?

“A race indeed, between the self-destruction of House Targaryen over fabled dragon eggs, and the greed of Lord Lannister. The lines have been drawn, and no one will want to be on the wrong side of history but even I must admit, that the dynasty has reshuffled the cards.”

“You mean the Tarth girl.”

“Indeed, I do not doubt Tywin sought to install his daughter and when that failed, he hoped a heartbroken bride from an insignificant house might destroy the dynasty for good.”

“He did chose a woman he knew to have born twins, and if he did not hope for the infertility of the prince, it was a risky gamble to undertake.”

“Mayhaps he simply assumed a woman who lost the man she loved might not readily accept the affections of another. Clearly, Lord Lannister does not know the flighty hearts of women” Perestan laughed, “And now, the Targaryens might welcome another child before the year is out, and a healthy one, I bet.”

Elia felt sick, her head whirling and she took a step against the far wall, her shaking hands grasping for anything to hold onto.

As if not steered by herself, her feet began moving down the steps, one hand still dragging along the roughly hewn stones. The morning air pressed against her face, but it felt smothering in a way she could not escape. Pressing a hand against her face, Elia suppressed a dry cough.

By the old Gods and the new, what had they done? Furthermore, what would they be doing now?

Odd thoughts rambled through her head, chasing one after the other in great haste as if fleeing from something darker.

None of them stayed long enough for Elia to grasp, as she stumbled her way along the walls, not daring to stop. Simply walking, evermore, into the direction of whatever path her legs wished to take her to.

Rhaegar. Ashara. Arthur. Rhaella. Ostaera. Five names, five _friends._ One in greater peril than the next.

Pain shot through Elia, and for the first time her open eyes focused on her surroundings. She had walked into one of the windowed pathway of the northern arcade, her hip and stomach colliding with the masonry in the shape of quills, ravens and books.

Uncaring, Elia leaned over it, hands pressing into the sill. Through the other archways, she could see the way to the Ravenry.

Fuck the Citadel.

It was the first clear thought her mind dared voice, and Elia felt thankful for it. Indeed, fuck these men.

Her breath became heavy, as the whirring confusion was drowned out by anger so bright, tears began gathering in the corners of her eyes but she mindlessly wiped them away. Elia turned to face the tower she had just come from, noticing the dancing flames behind the highest window, ere nodding to herself.

A grin spread across her face, and Elia let herself be carried by it once more through the window and along the arcade in fast steps.

As soon as she reached the open gateway out of the central Citadel, she broke into a sprint, ever facing her goal: the Ravenry. Its looming shape, the old and broken castle dark against the sun, but it was no matter to Elia.

The raven on her shoulder which she had almost forgotten in her stupor, set off on its own, at times gliding across her path, at times cawing from behind her in what almost sounded like encouragement.

Panting, she came to stand once more in front of heavy doors and, wiping a hand across her forehead, Elia pushed through the creaking wood that would not keep her out. They had kept secrets for long enough, and now she would gather some of her own.

The first rays of red and orange light reached their fingers over the broken battlements, and doused the enormous weirwood tree in what seemed like flames, its deep red leaves shivering and both beautiful and eerie.

Hundreds of eyes caught sight of her at once, and as she clambered over the big roots, Elia felt watched in a way she had never before, not even during the grandest of balls. But the ravens made no noise, did not caw once. No fluttering of wings, no sleepy calls.

Not even once she reached the northern tower did she feel safe from their prying eyes, their silent conversations with what must be the Gods or even Fate itself, and almost stepped back into the morning air when she saw the blind raven still awaiting her. Beckoning as if she was part of his flock, his murder.

She found her way up more steps, the walls damp and dark, before pushing her way through yet another door.

Darkness, absolute and beyond even that of a starless night, enveloped her completely. It suffocated her as she dared to take the first breath, for the air was heavy, and musty. Old books, mold and something that tasted like iron.

When Elia dared take a closer look into the room, her eyes getting to know the darkness, she noted the odd shadows cast by something behind the centre column.

Carefully, she circled around, only searching for whatever might cast such a pale and dim light before her eyes caught on the ghostly flame of a singular black candle. Thick as her forearms, and placed on a gilded plate against the wall, its white tongue licked against the ceiling uncaringly.

For a moment, Elia closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself as a shiver trickled down her spine like the fingertips of a dead man. Cold, unforgiving. Judging.

Then, she opened them once more, facing the candle and wondering whether extinguishing it might lead her to any conclusion. But no, she was her to find secrets.

The maesters talked of magic and politics in the same breath, and Elia knew that nothing would imbalance the carefully constructed peace in Westeros more than the resurgence of magic. Did the king now?

Why did the Citadel care?

Lighting one of the candles in her satchel, Elia turned to face the walls, wondering whether she might find something that could push the scales out of favour of the Citadel.

Dingy maps lined the walls, torn and barely readable in their pitiful state. Some caretakers these learned men were, keeping century’s old parchment tacked against wet walls.

The table most heavily used, for notes were strewn across and in a disarray that only a mind on the hunt could have created, Elia walked towards first. The scrolls and texts were written in a Valyrian dialect she had seen once before, when Rhaegar, Oberyn and her had hunted around Dragonstone trying to find something or other. Rhaegar had only known a singular glyph, the one for dragon (of course), and had said that it was the oldest language in Valyria, dating back to Aegon the Conqueror himself.

Were these copies of those very same inscriptions, or remnants of the first Targaryen king copied from the deepest archives of the Citadel?

On one of the notes, Marwyn had added a second and smaller parchment which was marked with a red dot. Obviously, it was important.

Turning towards the entrence, Elia halted for a moment, while her other hand already scrambled around her backpack for a piece of charcoal and something to write on.

Her alchemy notes, it was, and turning the scroll upside down, Elia started hastily jotting down the six lines of Old Valyrian script, inserting the letter “D” whenever the dragon glyph came up. At least, this place had taught her one thing.

Brushing her blackened fingers clean against her trousers, and stuffing the note back into her bag, Elia turned towards the barely used desk.

The books were neatly stacked, most likely sorted by topic and relevance. A singular scrolls lay open in the centre, but Elia could not read a single word.

Apparently, even Marwyn had had trouble, for one of the stacks Elia hastily rifled through contained books and encyclopaedias on the languages and dialects of the known world. Nothing must have caught the archmaester’s eye, since none of them lay open anywhere and no translation attempt had been made.

The lines were harshly drawn, in something that looked scarily like dried blood. The scripture was harsh, with many corners and not a single curve. Easy to inscribe, easy to copy, easy to understand. It looked quite different from Valyrian or even Common, and Elia had never seen anything like it before.

The second stack of books she looked at, was a collection of notebooks in the common tongue as well as High Valyrian. Accounts of something or other, dating back centuries, talking about the state of the Night’s Watch of all things. The annals of the order, or at least some of it, contained in a single pile.

In one of the books, in Marwyn’s own handwriting, a scroll was squished and Elia opened it. In blood red letters, the script at once flowing but scraggly, a letter unfolded before her.

_“My beloved Star,_

_This is to be my very last letter to you. Tomorrow I shall lead a great ranging beyond the Wall, and I do not intend to return. Not even your beauty and embrace might pull me south again._

_Do not be angry at my theft, though I know you to be a jealous woman like I am a jealous man. I wished to call you my own, like you wished to call this trinket yours. Now, it will remain buried in the snows out of reach of mankind, awaiting the return of the last hero. May the Old Gods guard it now, with their faceless visages and nameless titles._

_There is no doubt in my heart that I will perish on this ranging. Thus, for one last time let me tell you of how ardently my love still burns for you. It shall keep me warm when the last heat fades from my bones. The sword I wield burns bright in this darkness from the knowledge of our shared passion. The post I will hold until my last breath, I will guard it with your smile in front of me. I vowed to shield the realms of men, yet when the last door breaks, I will hold it knowing you are safe._

_Long live the King._

_Forever yours,_

_Brynden Rivers”_

Elia placed the letter back in the book, feeling as if she had just begun unravelling a thread beyond human comprehension.

She needed a new notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment or a kudos- whatever strikes your fancy.  
> If there's something you didn't like, also write that down in the comments. It really helps with the writing process.
> 
> Also, don't feel intimidated by the insanely long comments on the other chapters- if you feel like it, do that, I love reading them- but if you just have some short opinions, leave them here to. I cherish them all equally <3 
> 
> Now onto my notes and thoughts/questions for this chapter.
> 
> As I stated above, I redid the entire thing multiple times. There was actually a certain character I wanted to introduce here, to tie Elia back in with the main plot but that did not work out at all. Instead, Elia now gets flung into a conspiracy and intends to play the Maesters from the inside. I also intended for the Glass Candle reveal to be more of a rumour, which would make Elia investigate but instead it worked out as a sort of delayed secret from Marwyn. **What do you think of the way it was introduced and what the glass candles mean in the grand scheme of things?**
> 
> Elia is considering what politics are going on at the moment, as we have seen in previous chapters too. I have a very clear idea where I want Elia to go at some point, to get involved, and it might not be where you expect it to be with all that has happened this chapter in particular. **Where do you see her path lead her to, and do you think she will let herself be pulled in that direction?**
> 
> Then, rather abruptly, the plot of the chapter enters the scene in form of yet another raven, who this time actively pokes Elia in the direction needed. Before, it was a note that made her chase down Marwyn's study- now, she instead overhears the assembled archmaester's. **Opinions on this rather ex-machina plot-point ?**
> 
> Elia, in an effort to find out something that could give those she considers friends an upper hand over the Citadel, decides to break into the Ravenry. In my first draft for Elia's first ever Citadel chapter, I actually had her undertake a heist- so it seems in character with what I want to write her as. But instead of something high stakes, we visit Marwyn's office and have her rummaging around. On one of the tables, notes about dragons are scattered though Elia can't read all of them. **What do you think Marwyn is considering ?**
> 
> On the other table, Marwyn is apparantly working on a translation but has yet to determine the actual language. **Do you think Elia is able to solve this mystery?** We also have a name drop in Brynden Rivers, our most beloved Bloodraven who has probably turned into a tree by now. Elia reads his final letter to Shiera Seastar (unnamed), and between declarations of love for the woman, Bloodraven drops some hints. **What do you think he buried, and where?** I also changed the obvious references from the un-edited versions to sth. less fan-service-y. The question remains: **What could it all mean?**
> 
> As a side-note, I have been recently re-reading AGoT (as mentioned before) and I have briefly remarked upon the amount of foreshadowing in the first few chapters in particular. Now, most of it could still be a red herring, but one of the paragraphs that stuck out to me the most is in Catelyn I when we first enter the goodswood. There she thinks about how the _gods who live here had no names_ , and how Ned's _own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood_. This is either GRRM playing the long game, or spoiling the ending. Since I think it's important, I will go with it and included it in the letter from Brynden, too. **Opinions?**
> 
> Even this version is still not quite as I wished it to be, but it is the best version I can think up. After an entire month of not doing any writing (I'm in 2021 now, aye), I was terribly out of shape and this was my re-introduction.
> 
> Next up, we meet Ostaera some-time after the egg was found and we get some more ~drama~ and politics.
> 
> With that, however, I bid you adieu.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


	23. Ostaera VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alesan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back,
> 
> First things first: I've edited Elia IV (the previous chapter) today, and since the entire ending changed, you might want to re-read that so you don't end up confused!
> 
> Secondly: God, am I glad to be back! After an entire month of no ASoIaF and instead editing my bachelor thesis (which is done! I have a degree now, though I still know nothing), I was quite rusty.  
> Much like the previous chapter, this one was really hard to write and get into. But today (after what feels like ten different attempts and approaches), here I am and am very happy with the result. 
> 
> Thirdly: Congratulations for making it into the new year. I hope your healthy, safe and wish you all the best for whatever insanity this year has in store for us.
> 
> Without further ado, however.  
> Let's get right into today's chapter!

# Ostaera VI

The grand feast was well under way as Rhaegar first asked her to dance.

Nodding, casting a carefully curated look to Ashara next to her, ere taking his hand and following his slow lead across the polished stone of the ball room. In the very centre, he halted with a bow and began the dance to the soft melody.

“I received another note” he murmured into her ear as the passed each other, and Ostaera managed to conceal her confusion expertly as she was twirled around by another attendee.

The dance continued, and after a few exchanges and steps, her and Rhaegar were once more united in the very centre as other couples formed a circle in constant motion around them.

“What did it say this time?”

Rhaegar sighed, his right hand coming against the small of her back as they moved back and forth: “On the highest tower they see no feathers fall. In the deepest dungeon they hear no snakes slither. Let the lion roar through fire.”

“It does make more sense than the first” Ostaera acknowledged, nodding at her lady-in-waiting Lady Jeyne Swann with what she assumed to be a bright smile.

Ostaera stepped around Rhaegar as he lifted his arm before another lord greeted her to guide her through the next few steps.

A few days ago, a mysterious note written in High Valyrian had arrived by raven on their windowsill.

“Valar Dohaeris” it had read- _all men must serve._ Underneath, an odd symbol had been added. Rhaegar had told her that he recognized it from somewhere but was unsure where from.

Between greeting the Lannister children, and introducing Lord Jaime to Arthur, as well as welcoming her ladies-in-waiting, Ostaera had tried not to think too much on the note.

At night, she wondered whether it was meant to be an oath of allegiance or a threat. Not that they were in desperate need of the latter. Lady Cersei alone was threat enough, even now as she stared daggers at her from across the floor.

Ostaera caught her bright emerald eyes, and nodded gracefully before returning to Rhaegar’s arms for the next set of steps.

“The smallfolk are getting more nervous with the alchemists now fully settled into their hall” Ostaera murmured, remembering the careful glances as she had visited the Great Sept of Baelor with Rhaella the day before.

“Mayhaps we should reduce our interaction with them for now” the crown prince answered, eyebrows drawn together, “The Small Council is adamant that there are not enough funds for the new sewer system the guild masters asked for.”

Ostaera scoffed internally, knowing full well that Rhaegar might be able to read her intention in her eyes- he had gotten scarily good at interpreting her many subtle expressions: “They are too busy trying to feed Aerys’ hunger for dragon eggs and fire.”

“What about the orphanages?” he inquired as they bowed to their companions and joined them in the respectful applause for the musicians on the podium.

“It will be no matter how many gold dragons we might gift them, not if the city itself remains as poor as it is.”

“There must be a way” he said, and Ostaera knew their sentiments to be the same. Frustration.

On the eve of the younger women’s arrival, Rhaella had taken Ostaera to one of the balconies overlooking the city and asked her what she saw. Truthfully, that is. Ostaera had not held back in her opinion on the palace, the city and the royal family itself.

“Then change it” Rhaella had stated, as if merely saying it would lift the worries of these hundreds of thousands of men, women and children in the crumbling houses below.

Ever since, Ostaera had dared imagining how one might “change” “it”, even though the “it” was as elusive as the change. There were so many gaping holes in the tapestry that was King’s Landing, that it seemed nigh on impossible to achieve anything.

What use would be another sept, what use was anything in this place?

Supporting the orphanages had seemed like the first logical step, but as the days went by and neither the owners nor the children had gotten “better”- some even angry at her for her charity- Ostaera felt a sense of confused and angry defeat.

It, at least, diverted her thoughts away from the pangs of guilt and hopelessness that often overcame her in the evenings.

“There shall be, at least” she answered Rhaegar’s exclamation, “I have written Cordelia for she is rather more knowledgeable about such things.”

“She would make a terrific Hand of the King” he mumbled, and Ostaera merely nodded thinking about the havoc Cordelia would wreak within minutes of being in such an office. She would be unstoppable, her thirst never quenched.

“There is work to be done, and she would get it done” she agreed, nevertheless, “But I fear she would stumble over the same pitfalls as me: That a great many of these people do not accept the help we give them, as if they sense that we do so out of a sense of misplaced pity rather than the goal for betterment.”

“You have been princess for merely a few months, and already you have grasped an issue nary a council member dared to think about” Rhaegar laughed, and Ostaera knew that the many women around them would have turned their heads to look in his direction.

Hastily, she smiled and bowed her head coyly as if she was blushing at the thought of whatever innocent joke she must have told the prince. She was, still, playing the part of a woman destined to be here.

“Our charity will never be received as nothing but condescension if we do not change our approach” Ostaera continued after the moment of attention had passed, her head once more high an order to support the heavy crown.

“Mayhaps we should offer results first” Rhaegar wondered, “Instead of gifting them money, we might show them first how to utilize it?”

“But how can they utilize it in a way that means something, when not even the Small Council considers their needs worth pursuing? How can we go, and show them that money can buy their children an apprenticeship if the workshops do not support this endeavour?”

“You wish to give them a future, I do understand that, Ostaera, but we have to start somewhere.”

“Do not blow off your frustrations on me, if there is another issue- either discuss is openly right this moment, or find Arthur so he might spar with you” she let out between gritted teeth after his exasperated statement.

Rhaegar was still a crown prince who had never known work in the true sense of the word. He had never risen at dawn just to offer his family food at the end of the day. He had never repaired the rocking chair of the village maester so that he might watch over the young children as the others worked. He had never felt the blisters on his hands, and the rewarding feeling of having achieved something beyond his own scope.

She knew, that she could not hold these failures against them and yet she found herself doing it anyway. In a way, comparing him to Emmerich was the only way (it felt) she could remember her beloved knight.

He was not the only one, for whenever she saw the young boys and girls in the streets, begging for food, she could see Adolar and Lorelei in them. In their giggling laughter, in their cries, in their tumbling runs across the inner courtyards. It had been another cruelty, tearing at the newly healed scars every breath she took.

There was no choice for her but to find out how to change it, for these very children. If she could not do so for her own, at least she could do so for those whose own mothers were beyond.

_I shall keep them safe, would you do the same for mine?_

“I am quite sorry, Ostaera” Rhaegar looked at her intensely, his purple eyes unwavering in their intensity. She knew, he looked at her eyes so that she might understand his sincerity- so that she might feel for a moment what he was feeling.

It was a comfort, and she knew she could trust Rhaegar with her secrets and pains if not with her heart.

In another life, Ostaera wondered, she might be happy in his arms. But there would be innumerable lifetimes in which she loved Emmerich, and those were the ones she wished to visit, however impossible it was.

Mayhaps, in such another lifetime, Emmerich and her were dancing in this room.

Rhaegar drew her closer: “Have you thought of a name yet?”

At once, the image of Emmerich in purple velvet vanished into that of a black doublet and Ostaera found herself nodding silently.

“I know them to be not what is expected of me, for your father will wish for a Targaryen name. Aegon for a son, and mayhaps Rhaenys for a daughter…”

“I asked what you wished to name them, not my father” Rhaegar reminded her, a small sad smile on his pretty features as he led her in a circle, their arms outstretched, hands still connected.

Ostaera sighed and nodded, not showing the echo of defeat in her empty heart.

“There are names on Tarth and in my family that appear. Some often, some not. There is talk of the nymphs of Shipbreaker bay, and one in particular who calls the cliffs of Tarth her home: Muireall.”

“It is a beautiful name.”

“Yes” Ostaera closed her eyes, and for a moment she wondered if she would dare say these next words. She wanted to, and she knew Rhaegar already anticipated them- it might even be the very reason he asked this particular question in the first place.

“I also…if there was another girl, I would like to call her something akin to Viorel. She…she always complained about it being a man’s name, but she loved the sound of it. She was named for the sweet violet flower” Ostaera took a breath, grateful when Rhaegar did not interrupt her, “And a boy, I wished…a part of me wants to call him Emmerich, but I know it would break my heart every time I saw him.”

“Then we shall not do so. I love both Muireall and Viorel, which leaves with a name for a son, though I would not mind naming him Aegon.”

“There have been so many kings and princes named Aegon, no wonder it is always the first coming to mind” Ostaera replied, knowing it might be one step too far.

She could not forget the talk of prophecy, how Rhaegar believed himself to be some promised hero. It would not do to force the legacy of centuries of “Aegons” onto a child. Convenient it may be, but cruel, too.

They finished their dance, joining in the applause of the fellow dancers once again, before Rhaegar lead her to the seating arrangement on the dais. It was far enough removed from his parents as not to seem avoidant but also keep this small sense of privacy intact.

“What about Anthaeon?” Rhaegar asked as they were seated, and Ostaera almost dared placing her feet on one of the adjoining chairs. Dancing while pregnant was always less unpleasant than she remembered.

“What does the name mean?” she asked instead, opening her decorative fan and looking out over the other dancers. There was Lady Lysa dancing with a clearly unnerved Lord Jaime, and Ostaera shook her head ever so slightly. The young girl was naïve in a way Ostaera had almost forgotten. Innocent in every sense, and easily manipulated. Ostaera saw the girl’s sister where she danced with one of the court Tyrells while the Tully’s ward was standing rather lonely in the corner.

“Flower” Rhaegar admitted as she finally turned to look at him and a peculiar blush settled on his high cheek bones, almost imperceptible in the light of the many burning sconces and candles. Yet, she had seen it often enough to recognize it.

“It seems, we are to raise a garden, then” Ostaera allowed herself a laugh, “I would not mind.”

The gaze in his purple eyes grew darker, and reminded her of the fact that Rhaegar was still not as experienced in the same sense as she was. The thought of sharing a bed with her had proven enough to distract him from whatever topic at hand, no matter if she had intended the meaning or not.

“Anthaeon it is, then” Rhaegar concluded, coughing as he took the goblet of wine Arthur offered him. The Dornishman was grinning and even dared winking at Ostaera, before once more adjusting his eyes to survey the area and mind any men his sister was dancing with.

“And shall it be Muireall or Viorel? I cannot decide between them.”

“Then, we will not do so tonight. If we are still undecided the day she is born, we will make up our mind then and there.”

There was a lull in their conversation, and Ostaera let her eyes seek out her ladies-in-waiting. Ashara had been asked to dance by a younger lord of House Hightower, letting herself be chased by men young and old all evening. It came so easily to her, the light conversation, that Ostaera was almost envious.

Ashara went from the centre of attention to the shadows of any room so quickly it seemed she was both light and shadow itself. Not even the men of the Kingsguard were immune to her charms, and apart from his own sister and Lady Lysa, she was the only other person Lord Jaime Lannister had danced with this evening. It was, most likely, done to spite Lord Lannister who had sat at the long table next to the king all evening.

Lady Lysa Tully, oftentimes unfavourably compared to her older sister Lady Tully, was less outgoing than Ashara but had begun picking up on the Dayne’s graces from the moment they had met. Were Lysa was shy and held back in a way that reminded Ostaera painfully of herself in her younger years, Ashara was outgoing- taking Lysa with her whenever the opportunity arose. Lady Ashara may cast a very beautiful shadow, but she would be damned if she would not step aside and make those who thought themselves beneath her step up and take their rightful place.

She was, in a sense, rather similar to Lady Alysanne of House Hightower whose formal education often made her lead the conversation around her. As the two passed one another on the parquet, Ostaera almost expected them two abandon their dance partners in favour of one another but they merely exchanged what she knew to be loaded glances ere continuing. Two sharp-minded women with almost opposite outlooks on life, one easily laughing, the other stern.

Lastly, Ostaera caught sight of the young Lady Jeyne Swann- a girl from the Stormlands much like Ostaera herself. She almost resembled her sigil, with hair darker than even Ashara’s (the girls had compared it) and pale grey eyes that were at times unnerving. Yet, the girl itself was not unnerving, instead not yet sullied in her innocent outlook on the world, much like Lysa. The two did get along rather well, both fancying themselves with a different knight each week (for the moment it seemed a landed knight from the Riverlands) and Ostaera was glad for it.

Five women, two of them still girls, whom she was meant to confide in.

It was hard.

A part of her still clung to the vibrant memories of stolen sweet cakes from the kitchen, eaten on the rooftops of Evenfall Hall, of swimming in the blue sea. Reading poetry while weaving flower crowns.

If she had loved Emmerich, she had loved Viorel with just as much fervour. If her heart could not be healed from losing her knight, then how was she supposed to greet another woman with the same she did Viorel?

Neither were replaceable.

Did Ashara feel the same about her?

Ostaera would not mind being compared to Princess Elia, whom she dearly wished to be able to meet, for whenever Ashara spoke of her (or even Ser Arthur) she appeared to become greater and greater.

The musicians begged their crowd for a small intermission, and the four ladies-in-waiting made their way over to them, curtsying one after the other in their grand gowns with their cheeks flushed and they were not the only ladies who hastily discarded stolas and shawls in favour of their intricate fans.

“You looked magnificent on the dance floor” Lady Alysanne greeted, her long golden curls forming an intricate design at the back of her head, her pale grey gown spilling over the corner of her seat yet she did not seem to care. Her red fan flapped open, mirroring the red embroidery elegantly.

“As did you, was that your betrothed who asked you to dance the last set?” Ostaera asked, finding the man in question amongst his family where he talked to a girl in yellow silk who looked quite similar to him.

“Indeed it was, Lord Arthur of House Ambrose” Alysanne admitted, accepting a filled goblet from a servant, “I do pity them at times- who chose ants as their coat of arms?”

A wave of laughter rippled over the group.

“Truly, a terrible choice” Ashara confirmed, “But he is an excellent dancer and conversationalist, I rather enjoyed my set with him.”

“Should I be worried?” Alysanne asked jokingly, waving with her bejewelled hand over to Lord Arthur.

“Not as long as Lord Arthur does not turn into a different man from a different house, I’m afraid.”

“Harsh words” Rhaegar replied, “Do you have your eyes set on someone?”

“Not in particular” was Ashara’s quick answer, and Ostaera wondered whether that was the complete truth. Not that it was particularly relevant- if Ashara did not wish to divulge a name, it was her decision.

“There are too many men with the same name” said Lysa, blushing even more as all their attention was on her, “I…I mean…I danced with at least two separate Edwyns tonight, and spoke to three Arthurs.”

Ostaera laughed freely with the others, and felt something familiar bloom in her as she watched Lysa shed her shyness for a moment to join them.

“We shall install a naming policy, do you not think so, your grace?” Ostaera asked Rhaegar, “It cannot be, that it is impossible to discern whether we’re talking about Lady Alysanne’s betrothed or yours.”

Ser Arthur, standing next to the floor length curtains, snorted audibly as did his sister while the other ladies seemed rather at odds with the idea. Then, they too let out a short laugh- some with more enthusiasm than others.

“Leading by example, I think” and with one sentence by Rhaegar, the conversation was back on the original topic.

“We shall see about that” Ostaera sighed, her eyes wandering over the far-off tapestry and finding Queen Rhaella in deep conversation with Lord Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. They were standing close together, facing another set of windows, clearly enjoying each other’s company. The king himself was not entertaining anyone but himself tonight, the black dragon egg residing in its mount in front of him. Ever so often, Aerys would drag his fingers across the shell.

He had taken to carrying it around with him everywhere, from the Iron Throne itself to his private chambers. Rhaella had commented that it seemed like her husband had taken yet another mistress, and she did not seem put out by that statement in the least.

As the musicians once more took up their instruments, Ostaera watched as Rhaegar offered his mother the next dance, which she took gladly and she followed mother and son as they took the centre with practised ease.

Rhaella, resplendent and vibrant in pure red, and Rhaegar subdued and chivalrous in black. House Targaryen in full.

Lady Lysa went to dance with her father before her family was leaving early the next morning, and her other ladies in waiting also were soon asked for the set, joining the Queen and Crown Prince.

“Your Grace” a person entered her field of view, and the voice alone made Ostaera sit up and she raised her head to find a familiar face.

Dressed much like Rhaegar, but with a red pattern on his doublet, was Ser Alesan of House Thorne, a waifish woman next to him.

“Alesan” her voice was strangled, almost breaking on his name. The cheerful music drowned out as she saw the knight, and lord even, bow as the woman at his side curtsied nervously.

She could see every word Alesan wished to say in his brown eyes, both more than sad and also duller than she remembered them being.

“May I present to you my wife, the Lady Daenora of House…” Alesan broke their gaze, hands folding behind his back as his eyes closed, “House Wendwater.”

Ostaera looked from her old friend to the young woman, dressed in red, white and green with many a leaf embroidered.

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Princess Ostaera” Lady Daenora said, curtsying once more, and Ostaera noticed the way her dress was made to accommodate her pregnancy and found herself smiling sadly.

“And I you, Lady Daenora” she answered, “You must be a woman beyond comparison to have made Al..Ser Alesan fall in love with you. I wish you good fortunes, and congratulations on your child.”

The Lady Daenora blushed sweetly, brushing her brown hair out of her face.

“Are you free to dance, your grace?” Alesan asked, hoarse, but finally met her eyes once more and she could only nod as they bid his wife farewell.

She wished nothing more than to embrace this man before her, to greet him as the brother he was to her, but she could not.

There were so many things she wished to say, unspoken truths and words waiting to spill from her lips but none of them came. She wanted to apologize for being the reason of his best friend’s death, for not being the one to tell him, for abandoning them all. Her family in all but blood.

They turned around on the floor in time with the others around them, not speaking, merely looking at one another and swallowing everything else.

Then, Ostaera could no longer bear the silence.

“I am sorry, Alesan.”

“No, you are not at fault. How could I blame you for the actions of others? Emmerich would haunt me till the end of my days if I dared think a bad thought about you.”

His smile was riddled with grief.

“When I heard that a lady from Tarth was meant to marry the prince, I…by the Gods, I could not believe it. I even thought about coming to this wedding, but I could hear the celebrations in the streets and could think of nothing worse but seeing my best friend’s love marry another man. I ran away, to the Crossing…”

“Oh” Ostaera breathed, not daring to interrupt him.

“Visited…him” he paused yet again, before meeting looking at her truly, “Old Christoffer tends to his grave, and they…they planted two rose bushes. One purple, one pink.”

Her eyes closed, tears barely held back as she envisioned the grave yard of the Crossing with its soothing wilderness.

“It’s…he would have liked it, I think” a hollow laugh escaped his throat as they turned in their dancing, “Christoffer said, they sent the most important trinkets with Viorel and her man…away.”

His eyes shifted oddly, as if seeing if anyone was listening in.

“She left?” Ostaera asked, almost stopping in her tracks, “But why?”

“Safer, for the…the little ones, you know.”

Her heart began beating louder, reverberating in her empty ribcage and shaking every single bone and sinew as if she was merely a fiddle played by a skilled and cruel god.

“Little ones?” her voice was one moment hopeful, despairing the next. Still almost inaudible over the din of music and conversation.

Another half-smile.

“Yes, you know. Twins- Lorelei and Adolar, if you have heard of them?”

Her hand slipped from his, her ears deafening as the light from the candles seemed to darken all at once.

“I need…” but Ostaera did not finish her sentence, striding through the rows of couples. They bowed, and curtsied as she brushed past yet she did not even acknowledge them, merely walking.

Leaving.

Gods, she wished she could leave.

The doors opened in front of her, and into a smaller foyer hall where scarcely anyone was about, yet Ostaera’s feet did not stop making for the next door and the next one after that, almost breaking out into a run- careless of the fact that she was a princess and not meant to run.

Tears were streaming down her face now, she could feel them hot and cold on her skin, dripping down her neck.

The next door she reached opened into a private solar, to whom it belonged, she did not know and uncaring, Ostaera reached the window, her fingers grasping painfully around the polished black marble as she bent forward. 

Her knees were shaking, and soon she found herself sinking down, her forehead leaning against the wooden panelling under the window while her fingers still held onto the window sill as if it would safe her from drowning.

She could not even name this feeling. It just was.

Overwhelming, powerful.

Her right hand lost its grip, falling down ungracefully and coming to cradle her stomach.

Now, even the silence seemed too loud.

Nevertheless, Ostaera did not stand up. She should right herself, wipe her tears away and re-join these people whose princess she was, but the thought alone made her sick.

They lived.

Viorel had taken them.

Safe.

New tears sprang forward, as the most inexplicable smile fought its way out of her. Safe. Alive, and well and cared for.

Warmth filled her, and she could feel her breath even out. Alive. Safe. Loved.

With Viorel. Far away from this wretched place.

Ostaera wanted nothing more than to run outside, to scream from the highest tower of this keep that her twins were alive. She wanted to slap Aerys with all her might, and take that damned egg from his hands. She wanted to dance barefoot on the grass between rose bushes, catch glow worms in her open hand and count the stars above.

“You have two older siblings, my love” she whispered, slowly getting to her feet, still holding her stomach, “And they live.”

More tears wet her smile, but it would not be washed away by mere mortal means.

Slowly, Ostaera found herself humming the very same lullaby she had sung at Summerhall. No words, just this melody.

Taking her back to better days, to her love.

She began swaying in this dark room, her own heartbeat setting the pace, only humming. Mayhaps, even Lorelei and Adolar could hear her, wherever they were. Feel her love reaching for them, and Ostaera instilled every little drop of what she had to give in hopes her children might feel it.

_“Make me proud”_ Ostaera’s low voice spoke into the night, eyes looking up at the stars and praying, that somewhere in Westeros Lorelei, Adolar and Viorel were doing the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment!   
> It need not be an essay (but they are greatly appreciated all the same), but whatever you feel comfortable with. 
> 
> Now onto my notes/background info on this chapter.
> 
> To begin with, I have to thank the hundreds of "dark academia" playlists on YouTube who made this possible. I listened to them all day, and they informed my mood greatly, getting me into the right mindset to write something. 
> 
> We re-join Ostaera in the ball room of the Red Keep where a feast before the departure of the Tullys is held, since Lysa is now officially a lady-in-waiting to the crown princess! On the dance-floor, the couple informs us that mysterious notes have arrived in their room (by raven): The first simplay says _Valar dohaeris with an odd symbol above the crossed-out "valar", while the second one said _On the highest tower they see no feathers fall. In the deepest dungeon they hear no snakes slither. Let the lion roar through fire._ Considering all we know, **who could the author be and what are they up to?** _
> 
> _A lot of the conversations happen while dancing (which can be ascribed to aforementioned dark academia playlists). **Is this "Dance & Talk" something you enjoy reading? **_
> 
> _Rhaegar and Ostaera discuss the political difficulties they have faced in their attempts in making King's Landing a better place. On one hand, both Aerys and the Small Council block every idea and on the other, the smallfolk themselves don't seem particular warm to the idea of a benefactor. **Is this a realistic depiction? How might they solve this issue?**_
> 
> _During another dance, the two also talk about names for their first child (together). Now, I know naming them Rhaenys and Aegon seems like the most logical choice since that's canon- in my notes, that's what a child might be called, too. But after not thinking about it for some time, it felt simply wrong. Instead, we have Rhaegar asking Ostaera for some options. She presents Muireall and Viorel. Possible variations notwithstanding, **which name would you go with?** Rhaegar then offers the name in case they have a son: Anthaeon. **Thoughts on this name?** _
> 
> _After sitting down, Ostaera observes her ladies-in-waiting: Ashara, Jeyne Swann, Alysanne Hightower and Lysa Tully. Alysanne and Ashara already have formed a quick friendship, which is great for me as an author since it takes some of the heaviness out of interactions. The two younger ones, Lysa and Jeyne, also get along well but are effectively two young girls way out of their comfort zone. We know Lysa from canon, and what she became with Baelish around. **Where do you see her here?** Also no, Baelish will not stay in King's Landing. Spoiler. **Did you enjoy the little peek at the dynamic we saw ?** It feels good, to give Ostaera some light-heartened moments and she deserves all of them. _
> 
> _And then- Alesan. I wrote the name and was shocked myself, but damn am I glad it happened. That was the moment, I knew I liked this chapter despite my struggles- that this version was going to stick where the others didn't. **What did go through your head?**   
> Alesan Thorne, Emmerich's best friend, greets Ostaera and introduces his wife Lady Daenora Wendwater (there is indeed a canon House named Wendwater, sworn to the Crownlands which is why she has a Targaryen name). I will explain how they met in a later chapter, but just to be sure: She's not from Wendwater Crossing. Two different places along the same river. _
> 
> _Alesan asks the crown princess to dance, and after a slow start the bomb drops: Alesan reveals to Ostaera that her children are still alive, having left the Crossing with Viorel and Bowen. **Worth the wait?** Ostaera heedlessly leaves the festivities, and finds solace in a dark solar. Her head is reeling, until it starts repeating over and over that the twins are safe. At which point, her heart-broken-ness swings over into happiness. Relief, even. Again: **Worth the damn wait ?** To me, it was- and I wrote the scene! Ha!_
> 
> _Anyway. This was a wonderful re-set of this Fanfic for my brain. I think, I am now ready to get back into the different characters and actually feel something when I'm writing. To be honest, I did feel quite numb this last couple of weeks- there were high points, but overall it just wasn't the headspace for complex creative work (even my drawing hasn't gone past the scribbling stage at this point)._
> 
> _Next up, we'll return to Valyria and dragons (all the whiplash, I think, is in order) with Taj!_
> 
> _With that, I bid you adieu.  
>  Thank you for being so patient with me.  
> Until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird. ♠_


	24. Taj IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The word does say Valar morghulis, Taj thought as he left the tent at nightfall, and dragons are not men._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back everyone,
> 
> I'm glad you're still around. Like a lot of chapters since December, this one took some time to write, and it has the feel of being a bit of a filler. With Taj, the problem was that Valyria would be perfect for a lengthy expidition, uncovering secrets and finding treasure. But...well, the dragon happened. Now that Valyria is to be left behind, we need to get Taj, Phaeron and the dragon back to the Golden Company and (short reminder) gather the eggs Varys is meant to send.  
> Therefore, this chapter is rather focused on characterization of Taj and reintroducing Essos and the Golden Company.
> 
> I hope you enjoy what I have drawn from my mind.  
> Without further ado, let's get right into today's chapter

# Taj IV

It felt like Taj had not slept a single moment ever since Valyria. Not even now, with the smoking shores and steaming seas beyond the horizon- out of sight but still haunting his every thought. Every wave crashing against the creaking wood, every echo of ginormous wings, wormed its way into his head like beats of a ceaseless drum.

Standing at the bow of the ship, Taj watched as the harbour of Volantis grew ever bigger right in front of his eyes. Gorys stood next to him, hands clasped behind his back and surely feeling as restless as Taj himself. Every man on board of the vessel had been too aware of the large shadow cast over them each day and night.

And what a shadow it was, at times larger than life, at times distant like a bird- yet it remained. Only Phaeron Blackfyre never seemed perturbed or vexed by its presence or absence, seemingly aware of the beast’s whereabouts as easily as you would a spider crawling across your body.

Taj crossed his arms, leaning his body weight on one leg, bracing, as the familiar banners and sails of Volantis drew close enough to make out the fraying and sigils across them. The calls of men, as it was usual for any harbour side, had stopped long ago.

No sailors, no harbourmasters- the dock seemed empty, the canvasses and cloths fluttering in the breeze abandoned by their owners. Even though the sun was warm, casting peach coloured shadows and golden lights across the fair sandstone, it seemed rather like the city of Valyria. Empty. Petrified. Holding its breath ere disaster wreaked across from lost legends.

As if called upon, a loud roar danced across the winds and though he had heard this very sound so often now (too often, in truth), Taj still felt every bone and sinew in his body tense. Close to breaking like the twigs of a dying desert tree.

His fingers clenched into his arms, digging deeper as they felt the dragon dive for the city. For a singular moment Taj could see the familiar streets of Volantis burst into scorching flames like cinder, heard the screams of hundreds, smelt the cloying smoke of the dead, before the dragon drew a tight circle over the city instead of attacking it. The men gathered around him, more than one doubtlessly tense, as the beast stretched its neck, a salve of the same red fire they had seen before bellowed out before the large almost white wings stretched for a descent.

Gracefully, as if coming home, the dragon dug its claws into one of the guard towers, perched around the stone roof like a large house cat. It’s oddly opalescent scales glimmering like a gemstone in the early morning sun, reddish hues scattered across them, catching in the odd designs and scars across the body Taj had observed.

Its coloration ranged from the richest copper to the darkest umber, with a pattern of greyish ivory scales down its spine and wings.

Here, in the reality that Taj had found himself doubting ever since the Night of Lightning, the beast seemed even bigger than before. Though, any last doubts had left him when he had seen the dragon dive for the first time- drawing underneath the waves and returning with the still-fighting body of a shark in its maw- it felt beyond his comprehension, seeing the dragon here.

Home.

Making _itself_ feel at home, leaving nothing but empty ruins in its wake.

No, one thing was quite certain, Taj decided, as he wordlessly ordered his men to depart from the ship: Dragons were at home only in destruction, dealt in fear and there would not be a single moment from now on where Taj would feel safe.

Not until the beast left for Valyria once more.

Even the orphans of Volantis had sought shelter. On their winding path through the usually bustling streets, Taj caught sight of some of them, their eyes in the shadows wide and fearful.

It was, in a way, what he had expected from the Volantene. Taj knew all too well that Phaeron had dreamed of a grand welcome, of a feast with colourful lights and dancing men and women in the night. He was all the more glad that nothing of the sort was happening, leading his men and their bounty the shortest path to the gates he could recall.

Their horses, as glad as their riders to feel the steady soil beneath, had their heads bowed and Taj could feel his mare’s nose nudge against his neck ever so often. It was comforting, and he found his hand come to rest on the soft fur more than once. Feeling the breath of this animal was comforting in a way Taj had never known. If he could, he would have sought the closest brothel like so many of the men preferred just to enjoy the sensation of a beating heart and warm soft skin against his own.

The Rhoyne greeted them like a band of blue gemstones, glittering in the evening sun. The first fresh water they had seen for weeks. Taj felt tears streak down his face as he kicked his horse into a gallop, Gorys’ shout chasing after him as the men followed suit. Joyous laughter caught up to him, and Taj jumped from his horse as they reached the green meadow along the slowed current of this Rhoyne tail, wading into the warm water and sinking to his knees, uncaring of his clothes.

He felt the silt wrap around his fingers, watched the green grass and took a deep breath of the fresh air. Gods, he had never known he could miss something as simple as the feeling of soft, rich earth.

Weakly, uncaring of his men witnessing it, Taj threw himself down into the water fully, diving to the shallow ground, holding his breath.

Air bubbles drifted across his face, and Taj threw his head back to watch them surface with the last remnants of the sun catching on the ripples. By the Gods, how could he feel so alive while drowning? The grime of forgotten cities washing from his skin, the very soot Taj could feel etched into his mind, along with the memories of dried out corpses. He almost waited too long, noting how the water was disturbed as the others joined him, feeling his lungs struggle and vision waver. Only then, the bubbles ceasing fully, did Taj push himself into a standing position.

The horses were bound to the green trees all around, drinking from the spring, and not even the shape of the dragon on the city walls could rip this moment from Taj. This rejoicing.

Slowly, his feet half sunken into the wet ground, Taj pulled himself to shore and began the process of removing his clothes, flinging his shoes somewhere in the direction of his horse and wrapping his shirt around the nearest branch. Facing West, the sun sinking lower, Taj breathed in the warm beams, watching the heat dance across the ground and blurring figures and shapes. Yet, it felt right. Not comforting, for there was still danger in these lands, but they had faced the unknown of a destroyed continent- what should they be afraid of here?

“You think, we’ll kill Toyne on sight?” Gorys asked, his hair the colour of blood and sticking to his thin skull.

Taj laughed, wading once more into the fray of the water battle around them, joining his friend easily: “Course we will, look at us. Wouldn’t fault him for immediately getting up again, just to scold us.”

“Stranger things have happened. Vengeance is one hell of a thing.”

“Would you come back, if you had the choice?” Taj asked, narrowly avoiding one spatter of water before being it squarely in the face with a much larger splash. His war paint was a mess anyway, what little that had remained now surely smeared across his bald head in pale streaks.

“I already did” his friend answered, his gravelly voice deepened for effect as he snarled, “Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

Taj didn’t believe in ghosts, or legends or fate. On some days he couldn’t even believe in gods. If you died, you were dead. Who would want to go on for longer than that?

Mayhaps that’s why Taj could not find it in himself to enjoy the dragon. It was just like in those tales of undead pirates, and women scorned by their lovers: it should be dead, might even have been at one point, yet here it was.

Taking to the air effortlessly, as though it hadn’t been asleep or stone or whatever for who knew how long, hues of brown shifting in the light. It was headed in an eastern direction, following the Volaena river past Sar Mell.

If not for this beast, Taj would have pushed his men for Volon Therys today but making the entire people along the Rhoyne quiver in fear for his own comfort felt wrong.

Had the Golden Company heard tale of this creature, yet? It must have reached the major cities, birds and messengers were swift around here for information was worth its words in gold. In his mind, Taj followed the path Toyne would have taken- to Braavos via Norvos, and then to Pentos most likely, to gather the presents and letters from the Spider in Aerys’ court.

They were meant to meat up in Solhorys, some 230 miles north of Sar Mell. If it were Taj in Toyne’s place, he’d have chartered a ship to Pentos, cross the Flatlands for Ny Sar and take the Rhoyne south. It might be the fastest passage, but with so many men it would prove harder. So, Toyne would probable cross the Flatlands in a southeastern direction, aiming for the Golden Fields and the Lhorulu. He was efficient like that.

Taj could not wait for the day they saw the golden banners and glittering armour charge near from the horizon, dust whirling around the hooves of thousands of riders. For a moment, Taj imagined charging across a Westerosi field with these very men around him, horses sinking into the mud as they neared a mass of faceless men with red banners and golden lions in the sky. The loud battlefield noises stilling unnaturally, as a brown and white dragon dove from the clouds- there were always clouds in Westeros, Taj thought.

One day, Phaeron would lead them to King’s Landing, for that was all his heart seemed to want: Thrones, and castles, and long robes in cold unforgiving weather.

One night, the Blackfyre had told of the Iron Throne, moulded from the swords of every conquered lord of old, reigning over the great hall of the palace. Taj remembered thinking of Toyne then, of how the commander always sat on his loyal horse as if nothing could harm him there, overlooking his men who stood the same height, and yet they all obeyed his command. It never mattered if Toyne was sitting or standing, he remained the same.

Taj watched as Phaeron fought his way through the water to shore, exhausted but laughing still, a group around him already. There were no friendships for a king, yet for this boy- this _member of the Golden Company_ , a fighter like everyone else- there was everything.

Where they had hoped, Old Valyria would douse the flames of whatever greed and madness Phaeron harboured, it only seemed to have stoked them. Taj had been an idiot for believing in any hope, for thinking he would teach the boy- every confrontation only pushing that what Taj hated to the front. There was no respect to be gained from someone commanding a dragon.

They were truly fucked, now.

It was no wonder when not a single vessel wished to take them on, no matter how much gold they tried shoving in the captains’ hands, and after losing too much precious daylight to the men’s whimpering and cautious looks, Taj ordered his group to saddle up. Following the Rhoyne would supply them with enough water, and even some fish, for the remainder of their journey. It would take days longer than planned, and yet as Taj kicked his mare into a canter along the riverside road past a shepherd and her sheep, feeling the muscles of the proud animal warm and work, he was glad, too.

Crossing large distances with nothing but each other and their horses for company, and their rations to survive- this was the way of the Golden Company. They were not for the comfort of wooden ships and stone buildings, but the hot days and cold nights. Sellswords, restless and always chasing after adventure and gold so they might enjoy the pleasures of life another day. Like pirates on land.

Another smile placed itself firmly on Taj’s lips, as they seemed to find their ways onto his face every moment since their return. This was how life was meant to be lived, with the wind beating your skin, chasing the shadows of trees and bushes as the sun walked overhead. It was no matter now that they would take longer, for enjoying the sound of 200 hooves on hardly maintained roads was worth each moment. Least of all since it was free.

On the twelfth day, then, they reached the very town that was both too large and too small: Selhorys.

One last stop, one last drink from the Rhoyne for their horses, and Taj watched the men fall into formation without him having to even look in their direction. Gorys was at his side immediately, a piece of cloth wrapped around his head against the sun, and a set of hooves showed Taj that Phaeron had drawn up on his left hand side, too. The rest fanned out behind them, twelve men wide and four riders deep, one guidon on either side lifted proudly.

Yet it was not the city walls that ripped the shouts of joy from his men. Just like he had imagined, and yet still surprising and so much more fulfilling, stood a large camp to greet them. Golden banners bowed and spread in the wind, and Taj felt an emotion he could not name creep up his back and shoulders, wrapping around his neck in a comforting embrace. Tears burned in his eyes, as his heart just beat on and on as if making up for lost time.

“WE’RE HOME, LADS!” Taj called out, more shouts joining him as they picked up speed as one, one last gallop.

Even returning to Essos had not felt as all-encompassing has this, were every vein seemed to sing in time with the voices of those fifty loyal men around him.

The camp had noticed them, too. Even if it might have been the dragon, Taj would pretend they had seen their group first.

He could see the figures run to and fro between the neat rows, messengers almost slamming into the floor in their haste to reach the very centre where the command tents rose higher. Like ants, their companions hurried south as well, pushing together and swarming around the outer tents to greet them, and the closer they drew, the louder the noise of the camp got.

Three men, their armour like second suns on the ground, stood out as they pushed past the groups of men and once more Taj felt the grin take over his features, tugging at the corners of his mouth until he could not hide it anymore.

They slowed their approach, the men behind them splitting into two groups beside them until they came to stand. Sweat soaked, tired, their horses catching their breath, and with only the winds from giant wings cooling their sunburned skin.

Silence fell over the assembled as the dragon flew past them, casting them into shadow and every man looked up to watch the lighter belly of it blot out the sky. It circled Selhorys like it had Volantis but instead of breaking a tower, it returned.

The ground shook, a feeling Taj had never wished to be familiar with, as the dragon landed on its four claws on the western side of the encampment, the sun behind it. It did not roar, instead seemed to regard the gathering with something akin to interest.

Taj slipped from his mare, breaking the spell on Toyne, Strickland and Ghaen. Gorys and Phaeron followed without waiting a beat, and as their commanders faced them, Taj could see the very shock and disbelief on their weathered faces that had settled into his own bones since that thrice-damned night.

“Hail, Captain-general Toyne! We return from Valyria with…bounty” Taj called out.

“Hail, Taj” Toyne greeted, “Tents for your men have been prepared. A meal, too. Welcome home.”

If he had been a lesser man, Taj might have considered flinging his arms around Toyne, instead he bowed like Strickland taught him, before turning to face those brave men that had had his back.

“You heard the captain general! You have earned your rest, men!”

There were more words, an entire damn speech even, that rushed through Taj’s head as he looked in their faces. There was pride in the way they sat on their horses, and as they disbanded to join their friends and tell of Valyria, Taj watched knowing that he’d die for each one of them.

However, Taj also knew that there was no rest yet for him. Signalling for one of the green boys, doubtlessly a newer recruit, he left his mare to be taken care of and headed for the central tents. In front of it, a fire was in preparation, and sitting on the remnants of a tree was Toyne.

A wineskin was handed between the three most important members, silent conversations held as they exchanged looks. They all looked up when Taj approached, and wordlessly the four of them entered the command tent.

On the wooden slab in the centre, five old knives held a map of Essos in place. Colourful pebbles and pieces of glass showed known locations of other smaller groups of the company, one might even be a _khalasar_ , and as they seated themselves around it, Taj watched as a rough garnet coloured piece was removed from Valysar.

“We had not expected you for a few days yet” Ghaen supplied, “It took a while for the message from Valysar to arrive that you had passed.”

“Can’t imagine why” Taj admitted, “I’m surprised there was any message at all. What has been…what do they say around Essos?”

Toyne snorted: “There was talk of a dragon approaching the coast at Pentos before we even got there. A Volantene galley reached home port from the Summer Islands well before you left the Gulf of Grief, and other vessels made it all the way to Lys shortly after the Fourteen Flames erupted.”

“They all spoke of a ginormous black cloud in the sky” Ghaen added, shaking his head in disbelief, “At first we thought it a rumour. Ever since that night, many stories and fables have crossed the lands from Myr to Asshai and back. I wouldn’t be surprised if even the people on Ibben knew of this thing.”

“Tell us, what in the name of the Many-Faced God _happened_ ” Strickland finally said, voicing what the entire Company probably asked this very moment.

Taj swallowed a large gulp of wine in response, considering every word before finally managing to speak at all: “It was beyond. Just beyond. We had reached Old Valyria, the city itself, that day and explored the ruins. Everything is covered in several feet of black rock, smoothened by the winds. There’s no wildlife, no plants. It seems dead, and yet alive, too. The air is…it burns in your throat.”

The three men stared at him, but Taj could only see the very ruins he was describing.

Reliving each moment, feeling cold sweat gather on his neck, as he told them every emotion and every detail he recalled, Taj felt as he himself was back there. Each night in his dreams, the sound of lightning striking black towers greeted him, and yet it proved difficult to put it into words.

After he was finished, the silence of the tent seemed to suffocate him, and only another big gulp from the wineskin chased it away.

Toyne was the first to break the tension: “The Blackfyre boy dreams of it, you say?”

Taj nodded.

Another silence, this time laden with expectation and something beyond that even.

“This is madness” Toyne then whispered, hand dragging through his hair, “By the gods. What does it mean?”

It was Ghaen who answered: “Mayhaps this dragon is bound to Phaeron? It seems to follow him, obey his commands?”

“Hard to tell” Taj argued, “It could just be curious, chasing us until we have satisfied its needs and then burn us all to a crisp.”

“Best not believe that the boy is capable of controlling it. Even when proven otherwise- it’s a fucking dragon” Toyne said, sitting upright once more, “We can’t be caught unawares, but we cannot watch our shadow the entire day, waiting to be destroyed.”

“Phaeron thinks it best to claim the Iron Throne now- and this dragon is a convincing argument.”

“He’s no Aegon the Conqueror” Strickland said, stating what they all thought, “We do not know whether the other Targaryens have dreamt of such things. Phaeron could reach King’s Landing only for this dragon to start obeying them.”

“Their blood is…purer, in a sense” Ghaen agreed, “Especially Prince Rhaegar’s, his parents are siblings as well as their parents.”

Taj fought the urge to gag.

“We should stay far from them until we know more.”

“What of your quest?” Taj asked, “Has the Spider delivered?”

A sly grin settled on Ghaen’s face, but Toyne and Strickland both looked less than keen.

He took that as a yes.

Slowly, Strickland got up and moved to a large chest behind him, removing linen wraps and travel rations before grabbing two large objects from it. Ghaen took them as Strickland bent to retrieve a third one, all three eggs now placed on the map before Taj. They were both bigger and smaller than Taj had expected, and when before their mere presence would have shocked him, he now felt only interested instead of enraptured.

The one in the centre struck Taj as the most beautiful, a green so deep and rich it reminded him of the weeds growing in the Rhoyne itself. Flecks of burnished bronze were scattered along the scales, as if freshly forged. After the journey these eggs had made, Taj marvelled at the almost perfect shells.

The one to the right was pretty, too. Cream coloured like the brightest marble in Myr, soft golden streaks woven through like a silken shawl in milk. It made Taj wonder how something as terrifying as a dragon could crawl out of something this delicate. It would be a shame for the shell to be destroyed only to reveal a creature so different from its keep. Fitting, he supposed.

The one on the left, however…it shook Taj in a way he had not anticipated. Dark blue, almost black, with scarlet lightning all across. They seemed to move and flash as he could not look away from it. Alive. A herald of what had happened in Valyria.

“The Spider stole that one” Ghaen pointed to the black egg, “Right out from under the noses of every person in the Red Keep.”

“Ha” Taj laughed drily, not finding the same humour in the words that Ghaen did.

“There is a legend in Braavos” Toyne interrupted before Ghaen could continue, “Of a young Westerosi woman, a thief, who brought three dragon eggs to the Sealord of Braavos, selling them in exchange for the money to build and man a ship. Ever since, no one knows what became of them until very recently a great many dragon eggs were uncovered on Dragonstone itself.”

“So...Varys found them, brought them to Westeros only to _steal them again_?” Taj summarized, mind swirling from the oddness of such an idea. That seemed entirely unnecessary.

“There are two sets of these now, we think” Strickland elaborated, pointing to the eggs, “One in Westeros, and one here. If I had to guess, not trusting Illyrio or Varys, I would say they are playing both sides. Think about it: Varys arrives in Westeros and not soon after, eggs are found on Dragonstone. He must have tipped the king off in order to gain his trust. It’s the perfect scheme to prove himself despite the mistrust of the Essosi they have, especially after the Defiance of Duskendale.”

“It _is_ odd that Aerys was so willing to take him on” Taj agreed, letting his fingers roam over the eggs in consideration, as if following the golden swirls made it easier to follow to thread Strickland explained.

“Exactly. Now, the two of them have built trust over there, but also need to show their support to us unless they want to put all their eggs in one basket. No pun intended” the paymaster continued, an odd gleam in his eyes, “In order to do that, they need more eggs than they have. Now, I don’t believe they actually wanted to give us the real ones but since the Fourteen Flames erupted, they had no choice.”

“But can we be sure these are real?” Taj asked, “I mean, it’s said dragon eggs are turned to stone. These could very well be stone, too.”

“Mayhaps Phaeron can help. There must be a way Targaryens do this. Some sort of connection, like the dreams the boy had in Valyria.”

“I wonder…” Toyne interjected, “I wonder how it got so big. There is no way it hatched that night if it was as big as you say. Was it alive? Are there more?”

“They are magic, I don’t think you can predict that.”

Toyne nodded at Taj’s argument.

“It surely sounded otherworldly, what you described. No matter if these eggs are real or not, we need to find out if we can hatch them and how.”

Taj was not so sure about that. He would rather they stayed as granite, be it actual stone or petrified flesh, for all eternity. Imagining four dragons alongside each other, gods he did not even want to think too much on that. With Phaeron guiding them, or whatever it was a dragonrider did, there would be more than chaos unleashed onto this world.

As the three eggs were packed up and stowed away once more, Taj found himself wondering at the scheme of Varys. He mayhaps did not care if the eggs would hatch, but either way, one side would be betrayed, knowing full well who was responsible for it.

Had Varys knowingly placed himself in the centre of a two-pronged attack like that- with a mad king and foreigners on one side, and the Golden Company and home on the other?

Somehow, Taj found that hard to believe but then again, ever since a breathing dragon had descended from the skies above, anything seemed possible. Before all this, there had been political schemes and intrigues but now there was just dragons everywhere.

The image of an entire army of dragons, dozens of them, flying in a phalanx to spread their doom, grew in his mind unwanted. Men had been able to ride them into battle, to even kill them but how was that possible when the beast was born from stone and lava? Merely remembering the beast outside, Taj had never once thought of killing it. He had dreamed about it, sure, hoped for it to just disappear but the idea of grasping a spear and pushing it through the thick scales… No. Such a beast, winged death itself, would never die.

Well. The word does say _Valar morghulis_ , Taj thought as he left the tent at nightfall, and dragons are not men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter.  
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment- whatever strikes your fancy.  
> If there's something you didn't like, also jot that down in the comments section. Every bit helps with the development of this story (also, synonyms for dragon are really appreciated, just saying).
> 
> Some of my readers leave really lovely, long in-depth comments but don't feel pressured to do the same. I love both one-sentence reviews and drabble-sized comments equally <3 
> 
> Now onto my notes and thoughts for this chapter, to give you some food for thought/a comment.
> 
> In the ASoIAF series, what I have always found interesting was the effect the dragons had on the population. We see Dany using them as bargaining chips multiple times, then we have the issue of Drogon going rogue and terrifying the countryside. Yet, as readers and fans of fantasy in general, we can't help but be fascinated by their existence. With the arrival of Taj and his group, and the dragon by default, in Volantis, I wanted to capture that darker side of a dragon's existence. Especially one that is already the size of a house. The way that Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal mirror Daenerys and vice versa in their development is really metaphorical (be that intended or not), but we skipped the vulnerable phase. **What do you think of the way Volantis was depicted? Did it fit with your interpretation of the culture, as well as the situation in this story?**
> 
> Taj, to me, is always an execise in writing. Just in general. He's a lot more blunt than the other POVs in this fic, he has no love for royalty and all that "my blood is worthier than yours"-nonsense. If he were a studious character, like Elia or Oberyn, he would have stayed longer in Valyria but he is in essence just a fighter. If he were ambitious like Phaeron or Jora, he'd full on support Phaeron in his efforts to take Westeros for himself, but Taj is very much in love with Essos. Even though he has a strong aversion to it, I wanted to show him being rooted to that land with the scene at the Rhoyne. **How did you perceive that moment?**
> 
> Another important aspect of Taj's character is his connection to the Golden Company. Gorys is his best friend, he looks up and idolizes Toyne, Strickland is an odd sort of father figure and there is a strong sense of comraderie Taj feels for his fellow sellswords. Wherever the GC goes, he is home. Now, the biggest character development comes after a personal disaster, and the best characters need to be broken apart in order to be rebuilt (cough Jaime cough Sansa cough (I don't ship them, don't @ me)). Knowing that, and what ASoIaF is, **in what direction do you expect Taj to go? Where do you see his aversion to dragons, and love for Essos and thoughts regarding Phaeron growing to?**
> 
> The leaders of the Golden Company, and Taj, gather for some recon. During that, three very familiar (to us) dragon eggs get placed on the map. One of which we have already seen, clutched by King Aerys while sitting the Iron Throne. It is blatantly obvious that Illyrio and Varys are playing both sides, and since I find it hard to believe that the GC would not suspect that, I made them rather aware of it. That doesn't mean that everything they assume is actually correct, forced perspective and all that. So now my question: **What is Varys' main goal as of now? Which set of eggs is real?**  
>  As a side note, the journey of Dany's eggs is a bit jumbled. I always assumed that they were the ones found by Aerys on Dragonstone and then stolen by Varys, but while writing this chapter I stumbled across the story of Elissa Farman as it's written in Fire&Blood. So now, I had to somehow combine these two theories since I wrote about Varys sending the eggs earlier which wouldn't make sense if they've been with Illyrio the whole damn time. Instead, I wrapped up Duskendale and the fact that Varys was even employed by Aerys it all in that. I hope it somehow makes sense...these damn eggs, man. Everything is so convoluted.
> 
> In the chapter, Taj talks about the fact that something that was dead should remain as such (almost sounds like the Ironborn saying, huh). At the end, he thinks that a dragon is winged death and would never die, closing out the chapter with "dragons are not men". All of this is meant to be a nod towards the White Walkers and that entire entanglement, and since the main goal is to pull all the plot-strings together, even Taj might have to face the undead. **Do you see that happening? What would be his motivation?**
> 
> With that, I shall bid you adieu.  
> Stay safe and until next time,  
> Roxanne Blackbird


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